


The Small Print

by uchiha_s



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-11
Updated: 2017-11-11
Packaged: 2019-01-31 22:22:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 104,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12691368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uchiha_s/pseuds/uchiha_s
Summary: Mostly DHC; EWE. Hermione is forced to team up with the Auror division when Draco Malfoy is found dead in his home. Unfortunately, she's also been forced to babysit the Auror division's most notoriously difficult Auror - Alphard Black. HG/AB





	1. Fury

**Author's Note:**

> This is cross-posted at FFnet.

**Fury**

* * *

Just five short minutes ago her life had been comparatively simple, stressless _; easy_ , even _._  Hermione Granger despaired at the creased light blue memo that had come from the Auror Department she now held in her hands, which sealed her fate for the next two and a half months.

* * *

Harry didn't quite know how to feel as he approached Malfoy Manor, which loomed over him like a storm cloud in the grey morning. Reporters from the  _Prophet_  and other news outlets had already arrived on the scene, flashbulbs going; Quick Quotes Quills scurrying; low, frantic voices creating a dull din of noise. Off to the side, Pansy Parkinson was hurling herself at the Aurors who were patrolling the edge of the scene, making unrealistic demands at the top of her lungs.

"You'd think they'd be able to keep a secure crime scene," Ron was snorting behind him. Privately, Harry thought it prudent for Ron to keep his mouth shut on the Auror Department's choices and skills - he'd only passed the Auror test a few months ago because Harry, who had already been an Auror for a few years and thus was allowed to be present at Ron's exam, had Confunded the proctor of the test. Though no one knew that this had occurred, it was in general agreement throughout the department that Ron was a liability more than an asset.

"Yeah," said Harry vaguely, though his belly gave a queasy, swooping lurch as he alighted the front steps into the manor. Another junior Auror named Whelkes who had a severe widow's peak took Ron aside, leaving Harry to enter the manor alone.

"Potter, can you tell us-"

"Potter, how does it feel-"

He slammed the door shut behind himself, drowning out the reporters' questioning.

Inside the manor was eerily quiet, save for low voices coming from the other room.

Awash in unwelcome memories and thus momentarily paralyzed, Harry stood in the front hall, which, with all its cold marble, felt more like a tomb than the entrance of a home. Over the years he had been forced, due to his occupation as well as the natural course of life, to face many unpleasant memories from the war, but Malfoy Manor was perhaps the last place that had remained untouched in his locked-away memories. He forced himself to walk onward, wincing at the sight of an all-too-familiar crystal chandelier, and a door leading to the holding cells in the basement.

"We'll put Potter on it."

"Not Weasley?"

"Absolutely not." Harry froze once more, hearing Kingsley's grim voice. Thank Merlin for small miracles - Ron was still outside. "He's too reliant on Potter - can't think independently."

"Black, then?"

" _Too_  independent," Kingsley countered, more darkly than before. Harry let out a small breath of relief that he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Alphard Black, newest addition to the Aurors, was the last person that he wanted to be paired with for this particular mission - or any mission, for that matter.

"Potter," greeted the Auror Kingsley had been talking to: a stringy-looking middle aged man named Furness, with a bushy straw-colored mustache and very little hair on top of his shiny pate. Harry had rounded the corner and entered the library, which was taped off now.

Malfoy's body had been removed, though nothing else about the scene had been altered. It was all too easy to see what had happened - there had been an assailant, judging by the ripped carpet near the entrance; the assailant had caught Malfoy unaware, and the proof was in the nearly-black splotch of blood, which fanned out towards the fireplace. According to the report, Draco Malfoy's wand had been resting on the mantle. He'd gone to grab it, but had been too late - and so his assailant had pushed his head into the fire, Hexed him once more (a bloody one, at that) and then killed him - though they were still waiting on St Mungo's magical forensics team to determine whether it was the fire or a curse that had officially caused his death.

But who would do such a thing? Malfoy had been lying low for the seven years since the war. All of his enemies were dead or locked in Azkaban, aside from Harry himself - and his own personal grudge against Malfoy had faded with his own connection to Voldemort a long time ago. Whatever bitterness he had left for Malfoy felt tired, like a song he'd heard too many times. In the last few years, particularly, it had felt like  _work_  to drum up any sort of energy to his animosity for the pale blond man. Mostly, he could not help but feel pity for how pathetic Malfoy's once-grand life had been turning out to be.

"Leaving Black out of it is a waste," Furness continued fervently, apparently deciding Harry was beyond help. "He's a bit of a wild card, I will admit-"

"He killed his last charge, in spite of specific instructions."

"It was a necessity!" sputtered Furness. "It was self-de-"

"I think not," cut in Kingsley coldly. "Furness, Black may be your favorite, but I was an Auror not too long ago and I haven't forgotten what it is like. Black is an adept dueler - his only rival is Potter, in that way - and he could have easily subdued his opponent. You saw his test scores, you know he's got a worrying tolerance for the Dark Arts."

"Well, we've already disciplined him for that, and you know he went to Durmstrang; it's not his fault," snapped Furness, his face reddening. "We've got Granger from Magical Law to tail him on his next few missions, at any rate."

"Hermione?" Harry asked, whirling around in surprise. Furness looked testily at Harry, as though Harry should not have been listening in. Kingsley was biting back a smile that Harry could not help but slightly mirror.

Black wouldn't be able to get away with a thing ever again, if Hermione had anything to say about it - and he was certain she would.

* * *

She looked up from the seemingly-innocent memo, which had somehow burst into flames upon her desk, up at her intruder.

He was Harry's height, and of a similar build, but his hair was what got her every time. Out of the corner of her eye, she could almost mistake him for Sirius - and indeed he was a very young cousin of Sirius'. His hair, a bit longer than most men kept theirs, and unruly in precisely the right way, and black, had given her a pang of sadness and regret every time she caught him out of the corner of her eye for the first few months he'd been working in the Auror department. He had the trademark Black family deep brown handsome eyes, rebellious and boyish dusting of freckles across the bridge of his nose, and that sly grin that she had spotted so often lurking about Sirius' handsome thin lips, or threatening to break on Bellatrix's sensuous full lips.

Alphard Black, former expat, Durmstrang attendee, and most notoriously reckless Auror to date - yes, even more so than Harry himself - was leaning against the doorframe of her office now, looking annoyingly impressive in his navy blue Auror robes.

"So, you're to be my nanny, then," he greeted in a surly tone, nodding to her. Behind him, Parvati intentionally sauntered by in what Hermione recognized as her best robes, and Alphard shot her a wink and a grin before looking back to Hermione again almost reluctantly. Hermione inwardly (and perhaps outwardly a bit, too) seethed.

It wasn't just that Alphard was a complete rake. It was that he mercilessly flirted with every single female creature in the ministry -  _except for her_.

She was used to feeling like an unattractive sexless amoeba in comparison to girls like Ginny or Parvati, but when she was cast aside even for Umbridge, she had to admit that it hit even her own otherwise fairly solid sense of self-worth.

_What's so horrible about me?!_ she always wanted to roar, each time she was forced to bear witness to such deliberate and baseless rejection from Black. She really couldn't see that her frizzy hair or admittedly-not-size-six arse were so terrible that even Umbridge, who was hideous inside and out, was more appealing.

Then invariably she'd pull her head out of her arse, filled with shame at such poorly-placed jealousy, and she'd be fine, at least momentarily.

"Apparently. I'll be having a word with Kingsley about this," she finally said, looking down at the ashes on her desk. Alphard quirked a dark brow at her. "What in the name of Merlin did you do to warrant surveillance?"  _And why has it got to be me,_  went the unvoiced question, hanging in the air between them. Alphard offered a one-shouldered shrug.

"Stupid, really. Look, why don't you just forget about it, and we'll prete-"

"We'll do no such thing," bristled Hermione. "Whatever it was, Furness certainly would not assign surveillance to you for no reason."

Alphard's mouth was a thin hard line. Immense dislike for her burned in his eyes, then it was gone, and he offered a would-be charming grin.

"You know, this is why you're such a brilliant Jurator, Granger. You follow the rules - even the stupid ones - to a T."

At that, he turned on his heel and marched off, slamming the door to her office.  _Ooh, temper. Should I be scared, I wonder?_  thought Hermione, rolling her eyes and mimicking his words to herself.

Unfortunately, she sneezed, scattering the ashes of that fateful memo all over her scrolls of parchment. With a sigh, she muttered, " _tergeo,"_  and siphoned them off boredly with one hand, her head held up in the other, as she inwardly cursed Alphard Black.

* * *

"This is absurd."

Hermione heard Blaise Zabini's disdainful, cold drawl on a daily basis, so it affected her arguably less than it might others. Their offices were side-by-side, so she saw him several times each day, and she even got along relatively well with him at this point in their lives. In spite of her blood status, she had somehow, along the way, earned his respect.

"Yes, I know," she said absently, scanning the parchment which contained the facts leading to his status as a suspect in Draco Malfoy's murder. "But you're the prime suspect at this point, and you've got to respect the facts." She set down her parchment and looked up at Zabini. His arms were crossed and he was regarding her with arched brows, as though he could not believe  _she_ would stoop to such idiocy.

Somehow, he managed to retain a certain masculinity, in spite of wearing cornflower blue silk robes that brought out his enchanting blue eyes and set off his dark-toned skin. He was mesmerisingly lovely. Luckily, she'd grown desensitized to that too, over the years.

"The facts," he spat, "are that I am a Pureblood and hold Malfoy in far too low regard to ever put such effort into murdering him."

"Yes, but it sort of looks bad that you were the last person seen entering his manor, within an hour of what the team at St Mungo's has placed as the time of death," she said uncomfortably.

Still, she had to agree with Zabini on a certain level - it  _was_  absurd that he'd murder Malfoy. He'd just been promoted over Malfoy - if anything, Malfoy ought to have murdered  _him_. That, and she had gotten to know Zabini well enough to know that he was far too cunning - and lazy - to ever murder someone like Malfoy.

The crime scene was too messy, too spattered with blood. She knew, intuitively, that he'd never make such an inelegant job of it. Then, in addition to that, was the solemn fact that she knew they were both in shock and mostly unable to comprehend that Draco Malfoy, after everything that had happened, was  _dead._  She was certain Blaise shared that same disbelief that kept her so calm and blase about the matter - at least for the moment. It simply could not be real.

"Wrong place, wrong time."

"Then why  _were_  you there, Zabini?"

"That's private," he said, looking uncomfortable for the first time. Hermione sighed, rolling up her parchment and pushing it aside. She knew Harry and Furness were surveying the conversation on the other side of the mirror on the wall - a Muggle influence - and Blaise, judging by the sly sidelong glance he sent at the window, seemed to know it too. She wondered what they were thinking.

"I'm afraid it's either you relinquish that bit of privacy or relinquish your rights as an innocent citizen," she said grimly. Blaise's lips twisted; he was evidently suffering some sort of inward struggle.

"It's private," he at last said once more, after a moment's consideration.

"Then I'm sorry to say I can't help you further." She rose from her seat. "You know the drill: you will be escorted to a private holding cell by Furness and another Auror and await trial."

Blaise remained impassive.

"Whatever. The truth will come out," he spat. Hermione sent him a look of empathy, then turned and was led out of the interrogation room by the guard.

Ron and Harry were out in the corridor. Harry looked weary; Ron looked irritable.

"You didn't exactly break your back to get anything out of Zabini," he said acidly. Hermione sighed.

"He's not the perpetrator, Ron," she said wearily. "Can you really see Blaise allowing that much blood on his robes?"

"Not the cerulean, no, but perhaps he's got a nice dark red set that hide bloodstains." Alphard was striding towards them, smirking.

"Har har," said Ron flatly; Harry rolled his eyes while his back was still turned to Alphard. Hermione met Alphard's gaze archly; in spite of it she felt her cheeks flushing slightly. Behind him, Furness exploded out of the observation room, and towards their little group.

"Granger, good thing you're here," he said in a harried tone. "We've just gotten an owl in about an ex-Auror on the run; I'm sending Black, so you'll go with him."

"Oh, Furness, about that-" she began gamely, but was silenced by a wave of Furness' scarred hand.

"I've already spoken to your superiors, Granger. They're willing to work around it." He shot a sharp look at Black, who returned the look easily. "It shouldn't be for too long, at any rate." There was a warning to Black in there, but Black seemed supremely unimpressed with Furness. Hermione wondered what could have changed - Black was famously favored by Furness, and had all but been poached from Germany's Auror department on Furness' orders.

She deflated slightly.

"Fine. Let me just change, and we'll be off." She paused, then looked at Furness again. "By the way, Zabini's not your perpetrator."

"I think I'll be the judge of that, Granger," he said coldly. He gestured for Harry and Ron to follow him back to the Auror department, leaving Alphard and Hermione together.

For a moment, they stood in awkward silence. Alphard raised his brows at her, and for a moment, she hoped - no,  _thought_ \- that he might say something flirtatious, might finally treat her like he treated all other women. Then, as always, she was ashamed with herself for  _wanting_  to be trivialized, to  _not_  be taken seriously by a man based on gender alone.

"Robes, then?" he prompted, looking a bit impatient, and unusually businesslike. Hermione pasted on a rather fixed smile.

"Yes. Of course," she said mock-sweetly. "I'll just be on my way now,  _sir,_ " she muttered darkly.

"You do that," he said absently, apparently missing her sarcasm entirely, whilst rooting around in his pockets for something and walking in the direction of the Auror department. "I'll be in my office."


	2. Blackout

**Blackout**

* * *

Hermione hurried back to her office, inwardly grumbling, and stopped only when she rounded a corner and nearly bowled down Theodore Nott.

"Sorry, Granger," he muttered, barely glancing up from his parchment in spite of having almost been bulldozed by a witch hardly over five feet tall.

When Nott looked up briefly, she tried to give him an encouraging sort of smile, then continued on her way. "Sorry, Nott," she called over her shoulder as she went.

Nott also worked in her department and was, she was sorry to say, nearly as clever as her. His rabbity face and unfortunate habit of staring at awkward times rendered him unattractive to her, and she'd not forgotten how readily  _mudblood_  had slipped from his lips in school. Still, he had grown kinder since the war, and she felt guilty for her distaste for him. He was smart and really not a bad man anymore, but her gut reaction to him was to shudder and turn away—not that he was so particularly fond of her, either.

Thanks to being the only two Jurators who seemed to know up from down in the whole of the department, they often ended up working together, or at the very least, consulting each other, so she'd spoken to him quite a bit. He was intense but soft-spoken, shy but arrogant, and on more than one occasion he had lost his temper and called her an idiot. In spite of this their working relationship was surprisingly functional, and because of it, she felt it almost her duty to encourage Nott; perhaps if he felt she was his friend, he'd try a bit harder to play nice with the other employees they worked with.

Thoughts of Nott were banished from her mind when she finally reached her office and went to the closet there, to rifle through it in search of appropriate robes. Her Jurator robes were too long and billowing; though they did make for a nice effect in the courtroom—though she had yet to master the dramatic sweeping-turn-and-billow-out move that Blaise, predictably, had perfected long ago. The only other robes she had in the closet were a set of burgundy dressy robes, useful for surprise luncheons and the like; and an old too-short grey set that had got in with her jeans and thus had gotten the worst of a Drying Charm.

They'd have to do.

She hung up the Jurator robes and stuffed the grey robes over her head; she was still struggling to poke her head in the right hole when she heard the door bang open—she nearly fell over in surprise.

"Who's there?!"

"Blimey, Hermione, no wonder you didn't want to be an Auror. Could've cursed your—"

"Alright," she interrupted testily, yanking the robes down over her head finally to see Ron shutting the door behind him, smirking at her. "Well? What is it? I haven't got much time; I'm meant to accompany Black on a mission."

"Yeah, actually was just coming by about that." He lowered his voice. "Harry and I are concerned. If you need backup..." he held up one of the Galleons that she had, so long ago—ten years now—bewitched for the DA. He tossed her one, and she failed to catch it, and summoned it magically from the floor whilst scowling at Ron.

"Backup? I'm not exactly a damsel in distress, Ronald," she scolded, shoving the Galleon in her pocket, grateful for it all the same. Ron's mouth twisted.

"No, but Black's not exactly a fairy princess, either. He went to Durmstrang," he continued, beginning to pace, "and I know Krum went there, but Grindelwald did too, and he isn't exactly from the nicest family, either—"

"I know, I know." She sighed. "You're right, and I appreciate the concern. I'll keep a lookout for it," she added consolingly. After having a laugh about something Whelkes had said, Ron left, though it did not escape Hermione's notice that he carefully avoided the subject of Malfoy.

Perhaps, like her, there was a peculiar grief running through him that he wasn't quite ready to address.

* * *

She resented having to go fetch Alphard;  _she_  was babysitting  _him_ , not the other way round, and as he was clearly on probation, that made her senior to him. It mattered not, though; she wasn't about to waste valuable time by forcing him to come fetch her, and so she found herself striding through the Auror department. Along the way she heard bits and pieces of discussion about Malfoy's murder; she held her chin up and blocked it out.

Alphard's office was next to Harry's; his door, unlike Harry's, was shut. She didn't bother knocking, and instead just went in, mimicking how he had just sauntered into her office earlier as though he owned the place.

"Granger." Alphard was bent over his desk, to her surprise, his quill scratching away at a long scroll of parchment.

"Black." She nodded. "Where are we off to?"

"Furness has already briefed me; we're short on time so I'll fill you in on the way."

"I'd really rather speak to Furness myself," she said coolly, crossing her arms as he rose from his desk. The navy blue Auror robes, which always reminded Hermione of Quidditch robes, with their arm guards, shorter length, and utilitarian style, did nicely on his lean frame. She wanted to slap herself for noticing.

A corner of Alphard's mouth quirked.

"Suit yourself," he said lightly, with a theatrical gesture in the direction of Furness' office. "It's your funeral."

Hermione narrowed her eyes momentarily at him, then turned on her heel and marched towards Furness' office. She was just drumming up a scathing speech on Black's arrogance, her hand hovering over the doorknob, when a great shout, muffled by the door, made her flinch.

"Sounds like he's preoccupied," a silky voice said in her ear. Hermione jumped and scowled at Alphard, who was backing away from her, hands shoved in the pockets of his robes cheekily.

"Fine," she snapped. "Let's just go then—but if you're withholding anything, on your head be it!"

* * *

It was a bitingly cold day, and the sun only came through in bleached yellow patches through tumultuous grey clouds. They left the Ministry and were soon on the streets of London, by a dilapidated telephone booth and an overflowing skip.

"Glamorous, this is," mused Alphard scathingly. He glanced at Hermione. "We'll Apparate first; talk later." He held out his forearm for her to grasp. She did so rather timidly, feeling her face grow hot at the contact, and then they turned on the spot.

* * *

Harry had been in a fog all day; lost in memories and regrets, he had walked into two separate walls and had nearly disemboweled Ron when absently toying with his wand and consequently firing a particularly nasty hex at him.

"Are you even listening, Potter?" Pansy's tears were running in rivulets down her face; snot was dribbling from her pug-like nose. For a moment, Harry had been staring at her face, until it had dissociated into separate components, all of which seemed non-human, grotesque, and not belonging to a greater whole such as a face. He blinked, shaking his head slightly, and the world came back into focus, and Pansy was back to being Pansy Parkinson, albeit far more distraught than he'd ever before seen her.

"Y-yes, of course, sorry." He shifted in his seat. On Pansy's hand glinted an enormous emerald engagement ring, the size of which was so disproportionate to her hand that the overall effect was not of magnificence but of absurdity: it reminded him of the eerie My Size Barbie that his neighbor's daughter had received just the other day. He had seen the father bussing it into the flat next door, still in its plastic and cardboard box, and a stupidly big and gaudy pink-gemmed tiara was falling off her too-shiny flaxen hair.

Bugger—he was zoning out again.

"So, I decided to visit my beloved Drakey this morning," she continued on, with an air of great suffering and dignity, "and I owled him, just to be considerate-like, you know, and never got a response!"

Harry pretended to write something down; he found himself drawing a smiley-face instead.

Who would have wanted to kill Draco? Like Hermione, he had known the moment he'd walked onto the crime scene that it hadn't been Blaise. The job was too rough, too savage, too  _primitive._

* * *

"His name is Amundsen. Former Auror; went AWOL and it turned out he was in touch with some foreign Voldemort supporters," Black was saying, now that they had appeared on a windswept hill near the sea.

"Right, and what are we supposed to do?" Hermione asked faintly, keenly sheltering her gaze from the rocky cliff-face less than a meter away.

"Capture him. He's been connected to too many recent disappearances," said Black conversationally, as he began scaling the rocky hillside with ease. Hermione clambered after him, a stitch already forming in her side. She watched the distance between them grow as Alphard continued easily up to the crest; somewhere in the corners of her brain she recalled Furness mentioning that Alphard and Harry were the only Aurors in good physical condition.

She could see it now, all too easily, in the lean lines of Alphard's form, visible under the Auror robes, as he crested the hill now.

"And why, exactly, am I here again?" she wheezed, clutching the stitch in her side as she finally reached him, panting and gasping and nearly doubled over. Alphard was looking down at her in vague amusement mixed with disdain.

"To make sure I don't kill anyone," he said with a roguish grin that was painfully reminiscent of Sirius. Hermione straightened, arching her brows at him.

"Has this been a problem before?"

"I wouldn't call it a problem, exactly." He paused, roving his gaze over her. "Though I wouldn't recommend trying  _too_  hard to stop me—I did attend Durmstrang, you know. If I was willing to kill one person, there's no telling what I'll do to you," he added wickedly, his dark eyes twinkling. Hermione made a show of rolling her eyes, and gave him a little shove.

"Get on with it," she scolded.

She watched him pluck through the rocks and tall grass towards a little gathering of dwellings with thatched roofs. For a moment, she felt highly unsettled; something was niggling at her…  _I did attend Durmstrang, you know._  There was an echo of someone else in that statement—he had been mimicking someone.

 _I guess he knows what they say about him,_  she reflected. He was gone, suddenly, as though disappearing into thin air, though she could see the grass bending underneath his footsteps. She followed suit and cast a Disillusionment charm over herself before hastening after him, wondering if he even had a plan in mind.

The question was: did Furness really think that just having a babysitter would stop Alphard from doing whatever the hell he wanted?

It very well might, she reasoned, as she hastened after him. She didn't know him well at all, and Harry and Ron didn't bring him up much. He was Harry's rival in the Auror department, and with a sinking feeling she knew he wouldn't give Ron the time of day. Men such as Alphard Black did not bother with those they considered beneath them.

...Was she beneath him, as well? And why? She felt another irrationally painful stab of anger. Was that why he couldn't even bring himself to flirt with her?

"Have you even considered the fact that there might be plenty of charms to alert Amundsen to our presence?" she hissed, catching up to him. She knew he was about two feet ahead of her—she could see his footsteps in the sandy, grassy soil; and she could smell him. She'd heard plenty from various women in the Ministry that Alphard wore a particularly distinctive and unforgettable cologne; it was a fresh, intriguing scent unlike any cologne she had ever smelled before, and was the sort of scent that made her want to follow it. She hadn't smelled it until now, and she supposed he must only wear the tiniest amount.

"No, because I was dropped on my head as a child," he said coolly. "He had a Cauterwauling charm in place; it must have been put up ages ago because it was nothing to break."

"Hm." She didn't have anything snarky to say to that, so she settled for scowling in his general direction. "There was also a  _hominum revelio_ in place," she added when she cast her own detecting spells. "I just broke it for you; you're welcome."

"How did the Auror department ever survive without the great mouse detective Hermione Granger?"

"G-great mouse detective? What?" she sputtered. They were nearing the village now. Alphard stopped walking abruptly and she slammed into his back.

"Your Patronus is a mouse, isn't it?" he asked in a low, amused tone. Hermione resumed scowling as she massaged her shoulder where it had hit his surprisingly hard back.

"It's an otter!" she hissed indignantly. She heard him snigger.

"Big difference."

"Oh? What's yours—a duck?"

"Fox, actually." He paused. "Amundsen's a skinny bloke, like me, but pretty short—almost your height. He's got long blond hair—shoulder-length, last time he was seen. Blond beard. He'll be living in that house, there," Alphard said, and Hermione felt fingers grasping the back of her head. Tingles of awareness skittered over her skin as he turned her head in the proper direction, to a little thatched-roof cottage near the edge of the gathering of dwellings, closest to a cliff-face. The cottage was leaning to the side slightly, as though leaning away from the ocean in disgust.

"And we're to capture him?"

"That's it. And no killing," he added devilishly.

"I would hazard a guess that that'll be harder for you than me," she said dryly. "Did you really kill a charge?"

"Guess you'll never know for sure. The suspense might kill you." She heard him walking along the wall, clearly intending to access the cottage from behind. She scrambled after him.

Her wand hand was unsteady. She'd not been in action in years now—not since the Horcrux days—and she had never been the best dueler in the world to begin with. She'd heard from many people that Alphard was as skilled a dueler as Harry, but somehow, that didn't set her more at ease. She was mentally running through her most useful spells for dueling when she realized they were on the other side of the wall from the target cottage.

"Plan?" she prompted, stopping to stare up at the cottage.

"Surprise him, stun him, grab him, Apparate to the secure location set up by Furness and Potter," said Alphard as though reading off a shopping list. "C'mon." She heard the scuffling sound of him leaping over the wall; she couldn't do such a thing with such ease and found herself swallowing as she stared at the suddenly very high-looking wall. "Oh, really—you can't even jump a low wall?" she heard from the other side of the wall. She scowled at it. She wanted to inform him that it was stupid to be talking so loudly when they were so close to their target, but that would defeat the purpose, so she clammed up. Screwing up her face in determination, she cast a few helping charms and found herself landing on the other side soon enough.

"I've died of old age," said Alphard boredly, "just so you know."

"You can see how shaken I am," she parried flatly. To her reluctant but significant pleasure, she heard him snigger. She was quite glad she was currently invisible, because she could not quite hide the satisfied grin she now bore.

Judging by the slow, deliberate sound of footsteps, Alphard was creeping along the back wall. Hermione followed suit.

* * *

"You're not even listening. I'm trying to help you find justice for Draco— _my fiancé_ —and you're just sitting there doodling, Potter!" Pansy shrieked.

Harry subtly signaled for Ron to join him in the room. Ron came in, and shot Harry an amused look before sitting down across from Pansy and leaning forward. Harry had almost forgotten how gamely and easy-going Ron could come across as when he felt like it.

"So," Ron began, surprisingly gently considering outside of the room he had been imitating Pansy with his usual dead-on skill, "I know Harry's not been  _present_  for this interview, but you've got to understand, he cared about Ma—about  _Draco_ , too," he corrected himself.

Pansy didn't look fooled.

"Why don't you start from the beginning?" There was a touch of Bill's confidence in there; Harry had to hide his mouth behind his hand so Pansy wouldn't see him smirking.

"Well, like I was saying, Drakey hadn't responded." Fat tears were welling up in her brown eyes again. "And I knew he was sad, because, you know, Zabini stole the promotion from him," she added almost carelessly. Ron and Harry glanced at each other so briefly Pansy would never have caught it. "So, I thought to myself, maybe I should just visit, y'know, just see if he's alright and all." She blew her pug nose on a handkerchief; the hanky matched her mesmerizingly ugly zebra-printed robes. "So I went to visit him this morning, and just as I was walking up to the house,  _he_ was leaving."

"He?" Ron prompted. Harry twitched the quill in his hand; he knew they'd get nothing of value from Pansy, and it made it all the harder to stay here, confined to this miserable little room with her, and listen to her sniffling and dithering and squawking. Thankfully, mercifully, Ron was willing to help.

"Zabini," said Pansy darkly.

* * *

"Follow my lead," Alphard's disembodied whisper floated to her. She saw his footsteps in the grass move around the house and pause beneath a window; he was casing the property.

"I don't think he's here," she whispered as she watched a window to the sitting room slide open magically, then jiggle slightly as Alphard evidently went in through it. "Is that really necessary?" she hissed after him, but he was already inside; grudgingly she went in after him, albeit more slowly and with less grace.

The house was empty; she nonverbally cast  _hominum revelio_  but it told her what she already knew—Amundsen was gone.

"Must've been another charm we missed," said Alphard, breaking his Disillusionment charm and seeming to melt into being again. Hermione broke hers as well.

The house was stuffy and smelled like stale air and the salty sea air; perhaps cats had lived here once as well. She watched Alphard poke around, opening and closing drawers and cabinets. "Knew it was too good to be true—they've been sighting him for years and never getting there in time. He's got a connection in the Ministry; I'm certain of it," Alphard muttered, pushing aside a mess of stuff—old mail, parchment, odds and ends—on the counter and rooting through it. "S'not been long though—look, someone's eaten here recently." He jabbed his wand at a mess in the sink.

"Let's look in the bedroom," said Hermione, and she wended around the little house in search of the bedroom. "Who spotted him?"

"Anonymous tip," came Alphard's voice from the kitchen with a scoff.

There was nothing in the bedroom of note to them. Hermione went to the kitchen again.

"Probably tipped you off himself," she surmised, looking round. Alphard paused and looked at her curiously.

"I suggested that to Furness, but he laughed at me. …But I still think he did."

"He's clever, then," said Hermione grimly.

"And," continued Alphard, "confident enough in his own abilities to feel safe enough to do it."

He sighed. "We ought to head back; there's nothing here for us. Amundsen's gone."

"I'll have one more look round," she replied, as Alphard went to cast a Patronus. She watched him, wondering what he was thinking of as a silver fox erupted from the end of his wand, a smile of unusual fondness and affection lingering about his pretty lips.

He was sending an update to Furness. Hermione turned away and began rooting through the mess on the countertop. Most of it was old mail addressed to a Mrs. Annabel Finchley, who must have been a Muggle. Hermione wondered if Amundsen had murdered her just for the place to stay. Making a mental note to check the obituaries for this town, she continued on.

She looked up for a moment, to see Alphard watching her. "Yes?"

"Just surprised you didn't become an Auror. After hunting Voldemort, and all," he said casually. Hermione arched her brows. Even now, it was rare to meet someone—especially someone who had lived their whole lives in the Wizarding world and whose family had had such close connections with him—who could so easily call You-know-who by name. The name  _Voldemort_  still sent a tingle of fear skittering up her spine.

"I'm not good at dueling, and my abilities are better suited behind a desk," she explained. "I'm surprised that you can call him by name."

Alphard's lips twisted into a smirk.

"Why shouldn't I?"

"Oh, I agree—just thinking that it's rare." She paused. "Why did you go to Durmstrang, anyway? Why leave Britain?" As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she realized she'd gone too far. It was like a door had been slammed shut between them.

"Been waiting for an excuse to ask, haven't you," he asked archly. "Keep searching. We should leave soon—I've still got loads of work to do."

Hermione arched her brows at him.

"'Keep searching?' Do I really have to remind you that you, Black, are on probation, and I'm only here to—to  _mind_  you?"

Alphard's eyes flashed.

"No," he said sardonically, "you  _really_  don't." She watched him turn and rather harder than necessary shove aside a chair.

 _That's it,_  she fumed as she returned to the bedroom,  _I'm demanding that Furness find someone else to babysit Black._

And then something caught her eye, peeking out from underneath the little bed. She knelt down and pulled it out.

It was a crumpled copy of the  _Prophet_ —today's issue, in fact. A picture of Malfoy from a recent Ministry event was sneering at her, and her belly gave a great lurch before seemingly dropping out of her body. She sank to the side, leaning against the bed for support as she stared in renewed horror at the photograph.

 _He was just found dead today…_  There was something indecent about Malfoy's murder being so publicized, and for the life of her, Hermione could not determine why she was so filled with despair.

"Not to rush you, but this really isn't the best time to catch up on your reading." Alphard was standing in the doorway, tapping his boot. Hermione tore her gaze from Malfoy to scowl at him.

"This was shoved under the bed. It's from today."

Alphard hardly looked intrigued.

"Okay, so we just missed him," he said with a shrug. "Wasn't that his intention?"

"I suppose…" she sighed, turning the paper over. An untidy scrawl caught her eye—it was in the Classifieds section. "He's circled this and made a note—look." She held the paper out to Alphard. He looked impatient as he snatched it, but his brows did raise in appreciation as he scanned it.

"So he's looking for a job?" he asked doubtfully.

"A job in Diagon Alley, or else he's trying to plant false leads." She took the paper back.  _Owl Mme Malkin_  was written next to an advert for Madame Malkin's Robes. "Either way, let's bring this back with us." She cast the  _geminus_  charm and left a copy of the paper under the bed, positioning it exactly as she had found it. "There's got to be a pattern to where he goes."

Alphard was staring at her again. "What?" she demanded irritably. "You're starting to remind me of Nott."

"Nott?"

"Theodore Nott."

"I know who he is," said Alphard with some indignation. "I'm wondering why in the name of Merlin I am reminding you of him."

She rose to her feet, straightening her robes.

"He's got a bit of a creepy habit of staring at people," she explained grimly. "If you intend on continuing to charm most of the witches at the Ministry, I suggest you don't pick it up."

They left the house through the front door. No one seemed to be out, and the place had an eerie feel to it. Hermione would be glad to leave it. A whiff of something rancid, however, caught her nose just as she was shutting the door. "What was that?"

"Hm?" Alphard paused, looking back at her.

Memories, powerful ones, of Bathilda Bagshot's house, came rushing back in torrents to her. She swallowed.

"I think there's something dead here," she said, her voice thick with rising nausea. Alphard's lips twisted.

"That's dramatic of you."

"No, it just…come here. It smells…" she trailed off, and moved away from the door. Frowning, Alphard went to the steps again, and breathed in deeply. At once she saw his skin go pale beneath his freckles. "See?"

"We didn't smell it in the house. It's got to be the Muggle. Where's it coming from?"

Wands out, they began pacing around the front stoop.

"'Lo there!"

A ruddy-faced Muggle in a cap was approaching them. "You twos knows Annabel? No one's seen 'er fer weeks!"

" _Obliviate,"_  said Hermione immediately, pointing her wand at the Muggle. They watched his eyes slide out and then back into focus again, and then he was dazedly turning round, going back whence he came.

She went to the left of the stoop, her wand out. Alphard went to the right.

"Oh fuck," she heard. She darted back around to where Alphard was.

There was a crawlspace, shut away by a decaying latticework trellis, under the stairs. Alphard had easily pushed it aside and it was collapsing in on itself.

Inside the crawlspace was a maggot-infested body, limbs at grotesque, unnatural angles. The head was turned to look at them, the eyes open, unseeing forever, with delicate silver glasses askew and broken, their lenses turned opaque by the grey light coming into the crawlspace.

"She's been dead for ages," whispered Hermione, her hands shaking as she conjured a blanket to cover the body. "It's too cold for the smell to travel, I guess."

Alphard was just staring at the body, now masked by the blanket. He turned away, casting a Patronus charm, and sent a message to Furness.

"Let's go—there's nothing more for us here," he said, as they watched the silver fox slip away. She was surprised when she felt his cool hand cover hers and then, quite suddenly, they had turned on the spot and were gone.

* * *

"So Amundsen killed a Muggle, hid her under her house, lived there for a while, then gave us a tipoff and then skived off?" Furness confirmed. They were standing in his office, with Harry and Whelkes present. Harry was distracted; Whelkes looked excited.

"And left a false trail, we think," said Hermione, presenting Furness with the  _Prophet_ , which she had folded to hide Malfoy's photograph. Furness took it and opened to where Hermione pointed, his dark eyes scanning the page.

"This is a real mess," he muttered, clapping the paper shut and tossing it onto his desk before pacing. "A Muggle dead, Amundsen again slipping out of our hands, the Malfoy boy's been murdered too…" he raked a hand through his hair. "You two are done for today—Whelkes is trained in forensics and he can get a team out to take care of the Muggle woman. Potter and Weasley are still questioning all persons involved in the Malfoy case."

Alphard opened his mouth to protest, but with a sulky look, clamped it shut at Furness' warning look, and followed Hermione out of the office.

It was late now; most people, even in the Auror department, were gone. Hermione let out a sigh once they were in the silent hall, and mopped her face.

"You're good, you know." Alphard's voice was soft and low. She turned to look back at him. The enchanted windows let in the starlight, casting his face and hair in silver. "You're wasted in Magical Law." His eyes were dark, endlessly deep.

She stared at him. She had nothing to say to that, could not conjure a response as she had so easily conjured a blanket out of thin air. Her heart did a funny shuddering sort of thing; she licked her lips, as her mouth had suddenly gone dry.

"Thank you," she finally said. Alphard's lips twitched.

"Don't go falling in love with me now," he warned, taking a step back. Hermione scoffed; the feeling had blessedly gone and she was back to feeling mostly irked by him again. "It was just a compliment."

"I was just surprised you'd bother to give me a compliment," she said lightly. "Good night, Black. Go home and rest." She turned to leave, but his voice stopped her once more.

"You were surprised?"

She glanced back at him.

"Well, yes," she said with bemusement, letting out an uncomfortable laugh. "You don't seem to like me very much."

He scoffed now; he looked away, his hair swinging with the movement. When he looked back at her, his eyes were filled with mischief and humor, it was even tucked into the curve of his lips, and for a moment, a horrible, tremulous, emotional moment, he looked so strikingly like Sirius that she was breathless, was in agony. Was this how Harry felt, every time he looked at Alphard?

"See you tomorrow, Granger."

She didn't know what she had expected him to say. She watched him saunter back to his own office, her heart pounding as though she'd sprinted across a Quidditch field.


	3. Map of the Problematique

**Map of the Problematique**

* * *

"Oi! Black!" His wingman, Adrian Pucey, nodded subtly at a witch an arm's length away from him. Alphard pretended to be looking at the doorway as he surveyed the witch in question. Long blonde hair, tiny waist, big arse—just the way he liked them.

"Not bad, Pucey," he admitted. Pucey's green eyes twinkled with mischief before his attention was drawn to a trio of very pretty witches sauntering by, their movements mostly for show.

"Black. Pucey." Astoria and Daphne Greengrass, both frosty and lovely, had taken two spots at the bar, and somehow, two glasses of firewhiskey had appeared before them. Both Alphard and Adrian immediately abandoned all other conquests to talk to the sisters. Astoria in particular was interesting to Adrian, as Malfoy had been doing his very best to woo her before his untimely death—all this in spite of his upcoming nuptials to Pansy Parkinson.

"You're looking well, Greengrass," Alphard said to Daphne, as Adrian made a show of comforting Astoria over Malfoy's death—judging by her hard-set mouth, she did not find his comfort convincing.

"As are you, Black," Daphne conceded, swilling her drink. He got the feeling she was merely humoring him.

"Terrible about Malfoy," he remarked. Daphne nodded.

"Have they found out who did it?" she asked with a vague curiosity, finally looking at him.

"Not yet." Alphard held her gaze. There was something too casual about her tone—either it was just typical Greengrass arrogance, or…? Her green eyes, shrouded with long, feathery lashes, looked weary of the world and all its ways. "But the Aurors will find out."

He thought of the distracted look on Potter's face during Blaise Zabini's interrogation. It was too personal, for Potter, to be simply let go, forgotten about. "Won't be long, I reckon…" he finished thoughtfully. Daphne arched her brows at him.

"Who do you think did it? I hear they're holding Zabini as the prime suspect."

"Not Zabini," said Alphard immediately. He then thought of Granger questioning Zabini. She had seemed exasperated that they were bothering at all, when Furness had asked her.

His thoughts wandered, irresistibly, to their conversation just a few short hours earlier. In the dark of the office, their faces illuminated in tilting slats of silver, there had flashed a vulnerability in her, gleaming for one bright moment like a star, then it was gone again.

"Not Zabini," prompted Daphne. Alphard flashed a grin at her, willing thoughts of Granger, of all people— _boring,_ bookwormish, nosy, holier-than-thou Granger—out of his head. He spent enough time with the bloody woman during the day these days; he hardly needed her in his mind, too.

"Come on, Greengrass, you don't  _really_  want to talk about all this boring stuff, do you?" he cajoled.

It took a few hours and a few (or more) glasses of firewhiskey, but they soon had convinced the Greengrass sisters to leave the pub and find someplace decent to dance. The night was bitingly cold but crisp; the air was filled with that old excitement the world seemed to get every year—that particular, singular sparkle that only Christmastime could bring. Daphne Greengrass, drunk and lovely, was laughing at nothing and clinging to his arm; he was just at that perfect level of tipsiness, where everything was funny and interesting and nothing was bad or dull.

Muddled voices caught his attention. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw _her._  Granger was walking with Potter, their heads bowed in discussion. It looked like a disagreement of some sort. Daphne, Astoria, and Pucey all faded away for one moment as Alphard strained to hear them. They hadn't noticed Alphard's group near them.  _Some Auror you are, Potter,_  Alphard mused with some satisfaction. He slowed his walk, squinting, the better to see their faces in the faint light from the magical street lamps.

"...concerned about you—you're scaring Ginny, you know. I can't believe I'm the one saying this to you, but you've got to not let this consume you. Work can't be your whole life, Harry. You've got a wedding coming up—"

" _—I know,_ alright, Hermione?" Potter snapped, his face flushing. "It's just—it's killing me that I don't know who did it."

"Me too," sighed Granger, stopping. They were out of the light provided by the streetlamps of Diagon Alley now; Alphard could just barely make out their dim outlines as Granger set her hand on Potter's shoulder in a gesture so intimate, Alphard felt he had walked in on them.

Something clicked in Alphard's brain.

Merlin, was Granger  _in love_  with Potter? _  
_

They rounded a corner now; Pucey was dragging them to a spot of his in Knockturn Alley; Granger and Potter were now out of sight.

Alphard wanted to laugh. It was so amusing, so pathetic, and, sadly,  _so predictable._  He had expected more of Granger, truthfully. But really—he was certain he'd not imagined the emotion constraining her high voice as she had pointed out Potter's upcoming wedding, could not possibly have imagined the look of sheer pain in her eyes as she had looked at Potter.

"Something funny?" Daphne's soft voice, heavy with alcohol, drew him back to the present.

"Just saw Potter and Granger," he said offhandedly. "You went to school with them, didn't you?"

"Yeah." There was a defensive edge to Daphne's voice now. Up ahead, Pucey was stealing a reluctant kiss from a laughing Astoria. "What about them?"

Alphard slung an arm round Daphne's tiny waist.

"Nothing, don't worry about it." And he followed Pucey's example and pressed his lips to Daphne's red mouth.

* * *

Hermione slept fitfully that night. She'd had an argument with Harry on their way home from the Ministry, and though it was technically resolved, her conscience was still squirming at how it had all gone. That, and try as she might, she could not banish the last discussion with Alphard from her mind. When she woke again, it was barely past four in the morning, and she could hear London just waking up outside her window. She lay there, waiting for sleep to return, but she knew it was pointless and ended up just getting up and showering.

She got to the Ministry when all was still and quiet; no one else was there, save for a few all-nighters and security staff. Bleary-eyed and pale, she went to her office, clutching a thermos of hot tea like a lifeline. It was still dark on the Jurator floor; however, a light was on in Nott's office.

"Nott?" She knocked on the door and waited. Zabini's office, next door, was closed and locked; guilt twisted in her gut as she thought of him in a holding cell—one in which he did not belong.

"Mh, coming," she heard grumbling, then the door opened to reveal Nott. Patterns were pressed into the side of his face, and his hair was sticking up on one side; he had fallen asleep at his desk on his parchment and quill. "Granger?" he yawned.

"What are you doing here, Nott? It's not even six in the morning—did you sleep here?" She found herself whispering and she didn't know why. He mopped his face and opened the door wider. His robes were rumpled.

"Yes, it seems I did."

"...Why?"

He seemed unhappy that she was there.

"I got a bit caught up in work, I suppose." He paused uncomfortably. "Why are you here so early?"

"Couldn't sleep," she said with a shrug. "Well, I guess I'll leave you to it..."

"Right."

She shook her head to herself as she returned to her own office, which was considerably messier than Nott's. She stood there, thinking for a moment, then popped back into Nott's office.

"Say, Nott—do you know anything about the ex-Auror Amundsen?" She leaned in, holding the door frame. Nott didn't look up at her.

"No more than the general information catalogue does," he said pointedly, as he scribbled a note in the margin of a very long scroll. "It is unlike you to casually ask about something you know you can get from the catalogue."

"I thought you might have more worthwhile information," she bristled. "Sorry to bother you."

"It's fine."

Her pet peeve—well, one of them—was when you apologized for something you clearly didn't have to apologize for, but did so out of politeness, and the other person acted as though the apology had been necessary and deserved—even worse when they acted as though it was so good of them to deign to forgive you. Nott hadn't evidently caught onto the idea that it would have been politest to say 'no need to apologize' or some variant of that. She was about to turn back to her office when his voice stopped her again. "Helping Black hunt him?"

"Sort of. I'm supposed to—"

"I am aware of your assignment." He looked up now, his lips curving in disdainful amusement. "I just thought you might leave the Auror work to actual Aurors."

"You're an absolute ray of sunshine this morning, Nott, did you know that," she snapped, then went back to her own office, slamming her door shut behind her.

Indeed, she did seek out the catalogue Nott had spoken of—which contained general and basic information on all current cases between the Magical Law and Auror departments. Eric Amundsen's case was in there, an unusually thick file, with multiple tales of near-misses and almost-captures.

He was described as tall and lean, and his photograph demonstrated his surprisingly handsome face—his thick, straight brows might have overpowered a lesser face but only added intensity to green eyes. His blond hair was slicked away from his face, and his trimmed beard accentuated the patrician shape of his lips. She set aside the photograph with a sigh, and rifled through the notes on him. Handsome, charming wizards were all the harder to catch. She picked up the photograph again once more, chin in hand, staring at it. His eyes had a burning intensity that would have given a lesser witch quite the flush on her cheeks.

Luckily, Hermione was rather accustomed to charming handsome wizards, and all she needed to do was flick through his notes and see his many horrific crimes stacked up to find herself grow cold at his burning gaze.

"Let's see where you're hiding, Eric, shall we?" she murmured.

After all, as Hagrid had said so many years ago—more than half her life ago—they hadn't yet invented a spell she couldn't do. And Amundsen was simply hiding behind spells.

* * *

"Black," said Whelkes, his low voice constrained with excitement, "we found something on the Muggle."

Alphard looked up from his notes scattered across his desk. He'd been out late the previous evening—or, rather, morning—and hadn't got much sleep. The words on his notes blurred and blended together, then danced briefly apart.

"Mmh?" he mumbled, straightening up to look up at Whelkes, who was standing in the doorway to his office. Whelkes' severe widow's peak and wide mouth gave him a monkeyish appearance, and though he was an excellent Auror, Alphard found it difficult to take him seriously.

"The Muggle woman," he reiterated impatiently, "at Amundsen's recent hideout. We found something interesting on her."

"Oh?" Alphard stood up now and followed Whelkes to his own office.

"Well, there are contusions around her collarbone, left side," Whelkes began, gesturing for Alphard to go into his office, which was really more of a lab than anything else. Along one wall he had tacked photographs of the Muggle woman's body; there were so many that they covered the entire wall from floor to ceiling.

Whelkes pointed at a set of photographs in particular.

"Mark of Dark magic," said Alphard immediately, narrowing his eyes, the better to study the small markings. "That's an Inferius spell."

"Exactly! You know about it?"

"Yeah, seen it before," said Alphard vaguely. "But I don't get why this is important to us."

"It means he was marking her as an intended Inferi," Whelkes said.

"So there are probably other Muggles dead at his previous hideouts," said Alphard, already leaving the room. "We've got to get going, then." He dashed out of the room, leaving a slightly deflated Whelkes there, who had imagined a much more climactic scene.

* * *

"Granger."

Alphard was striding to her, apparently unimpressed that she was in the middle of a conversation with Nott and therefore might be busy. "You've still got Amundsen's file from the general information catalogue and your office is locked."

"You did consult the catalogue," confirmed Nott approvingly with some amusement. Hermione shot him a glower, then turned to Alphard.

"This might come as a shock, but if my office is locked, it's because I don't want anyone else getting in," she said slowly, the better for him to understand. Alphard's brow quirked.

"Then unlock it. You'll want me to get in," he said impatiently. "C'mon, I haven't got much time."

"Please might work," drawled Nott, to the mutual surprise of Hermione and Alphard. Alphard's lips twisted into a sneer as he regarded Nott. Though Alphard was a good inch or two shorter than Nott, he seemed to tower over him in presence alone.

"Why don't you go back to your books and let the rest of us do the important work?" His voice was an awful silkiness. Nott seemed defensive; sulky.

"The Auror department is just the brawn—without us, you haven't got brains, Black," he spat.

"'Us,' eh? Speak for yourself, Nott—Granger and Zabini are the brains of the department—not you." He turned back to Hermione. "Unlock the office—I need those files." He paused, then looked at Nott with awful sarcastic amusement. "...Please."

Hermione looked between the two men in shock and disgust, but Nott was already slinking off, radiating dislike, and Alphard was looking after him, carelessly disgusted and almost amused by him in the worst sort of disdain.

"That was barbaric. You're a bully," she said quietly. Alphard scoffed.

"Nice blokes finish last, Granger," he said simply. "That, and I don't like that nutter."

"Nott? He's harmless," said Hermione, flushing. "And that bit about me and Zabini being the brains of the department—well, it's simply not true. Nott is as clever as Zabini and I and I've relied on his intelligence many times in the past."

"Explains why Britain's Ministry of Magic's going to the dogs, then," he said disgustedly. "If you're letting scum like him run it."

"Scum? If you're referring to the fact that his father was a Death Eater, let me remind you who you're re—"

"Don't." His cheeks had gotten high color to them, reminding Hermione irresistibly of Bellatrix. "Don't you dare," he continued breathlessly, "talk about my family like you know the first fucking thing about it." He turned away slightly. "Because you don't. Now, files?"

The last thing she wanted to do, after that horrific display of temper, was give Black a damn thing, but when he explained Whelkes' finding, she knew she had no choice.

Within an hour, they'd forgotten the argument, and an entire wall of Hermione's office was covered in a map of Britain with multi-colored pins marking previous hideouts of Amundsen's.

"Not bad," surmised Alphard, arms crossed, as he regarded the map.

"The question is: what's our next step?" wondered Hermione haplessly. She touched the map for a moment. One of the pins was close—too close—to her childhood home.

"No question about that. We go to each spot, find the Inferi waiting there."

"But what if there's a pattern! We should send someone else—someone more junior—to collect the bodies and instead focus our attentions on where we might find him next."

"There can't be a pattern, Granger," said Alphard carelessly, casting his hand at the map. "Look at it. He's hiding wherever's convenient." He conjured a slip of parchment and took one of Hermione's quills, and scribbled down a few of the locations. "Now, I'm going out—whether you like it or not."

He turned on his heel, swiftly leaving her office, and Hermione stared after him in exasperation.

This was probably what having a teenager must be like.

* * *

"Pansy's saying she saw Zabini leaving that morning," Ron said for the millionth time, massaging his temples. Harry stared down at the notes he and Ron had taken during their questioning of all persons involved in the Malfoy murder. He turned over the parchment; he already knew there was nothing on the other side. "Too bad we can't use veritaserum or Legilimency," grumbled Ron.

"It wasn't Zabini," said Harry, closing his eyes and thinking once more of their questioning of Zabini. He had seemed disgusted and enraged that they were holding him as the prime suspect—understandably—but, more notably, just as shaken as they were about Malfoy's death.

"I know," said Ron, rolling his eyes, "but I reckon he knows something about it."

"You do?" Harry asked in surprise, looking up at his best friend.

"Yeah, I mean, he and Malfoy were like frenemies, y'know? I'm not saying he  _did_  anything, but…"

"I want to talk to him again, then," said Harry, rising. Ron snorted.

"Alright, but I'm thinking it won't be him we get much out of."

Harry strode down the hall. The Auror holding cells for prime suspects resembled relatively comfortable but shabby flats; it wasn't too nice in case the suspect was guilty, but not too austere, in case they were being wrongly held. Blaise was sitting in the winged back chair by one of the false windows, reading.

"Zabini," said Harry, entering the cell. Zabini barely looked up from his book. "Mind if we talk again?"

"Yes, actually. It's almost my bed time, Potter," mused Zabini. This was a moot point; it was barely noon, but nevertheless, Harry found himself just shy of grinning. He pulled up a small wooden chair and sat in it across from Zabini. To his credit, Zabini set down his book. "Well? Got some new silly tactic that'll surely make me  _spill the beans_  this time?" His voice was awfully derisive. Harry sighed.

"No. I don't think you did it. No one does at this point, actually," he added, more to himself.

"Then why am I still here?"

"We haven't got anyone else," said Harry truthfully. "But Ron reckons you might know something about it—maybe even without knowing you know."

"Buried in my subconscious, eh?" He was making it brutally clear that he found this a silly idea. Harry bit his lip.

"Something like that. Listen, can you think of  _anyone_  who'd want Malfoy dead?"

"The whole of Britain's magical community or so, and most of the female population of Britain," said Blaise. "I'm sure that narrows it down for you."

"Ha ha," he said shortly, "but anyone in particular?"

"Well, it's hard to say—Malfoy has been keeping a low profile in the last few years," said Blaise with a shrug. "Lucius' death hurt him, you know. He was counting on getting my position in the Jurator department, but that would have been more than silly—he's crap at the job, crap at most jobs, as a matter of fact. He wasn't stupid, you understand—just not so invested in something so menial as a day job."

"If you had to guess at who did it, who would you guess?"

"Well, all logic points to me, doesn't it?" Blaise mused. "But I suppose I'd guess he'd done it himself."

"Himself?" Harry thought back to the particularly messy crime scene.

"He'd love nothing more than the drama of a witchhunt for his murderer—forcing everyone to finally care, you know—and he was certainly clever enough to pull it off."

"Any other theories?" Harry asked in desperation. Blaise's lips curved into a smirk.

"Well, Parkinson might've finally had enough and decided to off him to get out of the wedding."

Harry recalled Pansy's tears pooling with her snot, dribbling down her face, and thought of the crime scene again. No, that had not been a suicide, and it'd not been Pansy, either—he'd seen her in Hogwarts, and he knew she could never have possibly bested Malfoy in a duel.

"…Right. Well, this has been helpful—thanks." He rose to his feet. Blaise's blue eyes followed the movement.

"You're a terrible liar, Potter." He went back to his book. "Let me know when you find the killer. …Malfoy and I were never exactly the best of friends, but he was certainly a …  _defining_ … aspect of my time at Hogwarts."

There was a flicker of uncharacteristic emotion in Blaise's voice; then it was gone again.

"Yeah. Sure." He turned and left Blaise's cell.

* * *

Hermione chased after Alphard, a stitch in her side. When she reached the Auror department, she saw Harry exiting the holding cell where Blaise was currently kept, looking distracted.

"Harry!" She enveloped him in a bone-crushing hug, then released him when he begged, rasping, for her to let go, clapping her back uncertainly. "Sorry," she added sheepishly. "You just looked like you could use a hug."

"I suppose," said Harry in bemusement. "How is it…" he glanced around, before lowering his voice, "watching Black?"

"Well, he's hell-bent on rushing after some leads on Amundsen, but other than that…" she thought back to earlier that morning, and his confrontation with Nott. "He's not exactly tied down by social customs such as normal civility," she finished flatly, narrowing her eyes at the memory. She heard Harry snort.

"Nott?"

"How did you know?" she asked with interest, turning to Harry now.

"Every staff meeting—he's convinced Nott's a dark wizard," he laughed, shaking his head. Hermione blinked in surprise.

"But  _why?_ "

"Dunno. Ron reckons it's a family thing," he said with a shrug.

Hermione was about to badger him for more, but as they rounded the corner, they ran into Alphard again.

"We're off—cancel your afternoon schedule," said Alphard. He glanced at Harry. "Potter," he acknowledged. Hermione could not help but notice how each man stood a bit taller.

"Black," conceded Harry stiffly. "You might want to pay a bit more respect to Granger—our offices depend on the Jurators doing their job well. She's a busy Jurator and you'll bend to her schedule."

"Oh, will I? Let me just owl Amundsen—I'm sure he'll be happy to wait round for Granger to finish her tea," said Alphard dryly. Harry's face flushed.

"Never mind," cut in Hermione hastily. "Let's just go—the sooner we leave, the sooner I can come back to my real job."

"Fine. Good luck," Harry said with a terse nod, before walking off. Alphard's dark eyes narrowed into shrewd crescents as he looked back at Harry for a moment.

"Ready?" he asked, turning to Hermione.

"I suppose," she said grimly. For a moment, they regarded each other. Hermione thought of the previous evening, and the interaction that had interrupted her sleep. Something deep in her belly twisted as she met his dark eyes. "I would appreciate more respect from you. I—I work hard and I'm valuable." She hated how high, how petulant, her voice sounded. It was like she was thirteen again, uncertain of herself and filled with self-hate for her bushy hair, big teeth, freckles, and how she could never seem to get it  _right_  with other people.

She resented him for it. She normally didn't feel thirteen years old—these days she knew her place and had gained confidence in herself, her appearance, what she did. She would never be as confident as Ginny but she knew she had her own charm and her own value. She bit her lip, meeting Alphard's eyes once more. "Oh, whatever—let's get a move on; I've not got all day."

* * *

They had Transfigured their clothes into Muggle clothing and soon appeared at the edge of a deserted playground, shielded from view by a copse of trees, their shoes sinking into the sodden ground.

"He was staying in a house in that neighborhood there," confirmed Granger, pointing at a side street beyond the crumpling hurricane fence at the other end of the playground. Alphard wiped rainwater from his eyes as he watched her grimace at the rain before setting off towards their target, plainer than ever in her grey Muggle raincoat and jeans, her hair unrulier than ever in the rain.

In spite of himself, the idea of a love so very unrequited weighed heavy on his heart. He pitied her. All these years of longing for Potter, with no chance of him returning her feelings...how did she manage to go on, even? Alphard himself had never been  _in love_  with anyone but he imagined it was difficult even in the best of circumstances, even when it was returned...  _You don't know for certain that she's in love with Potter..._  And yet how could it be any other way? He knew she was not seeing anyone; the rumor was that she had briefly dated Weasley after the war and in the years since the end of the relationship hadn't seen anyone at all. She was plain, nosy, temperamental, condescending, bossy; domineering, even—but still, she was pretty in her own way, in the right light, and damn clever. If her heart did not belong elsewhere, surely someone would have captured it by now.

"Oh, are we not in a hurry anymore?" she called bitterly several meters away, throwing up her arms in exasperation. "I'm sorry; I was under the impression we had some sort of time limit."

"Sorry—thinking," he explained, jogging to catch up with her. He found himself, to his genuine surprise, grinning. Their eyes met.  _I wonder if Potter knows._  He looked away, afraid she would see in his eyes that he knew her secret.

"Didn't know you made a habit of it—might as well tell you now that you can do it while walking, too," she snarked, scowling into the rain, her rainboots splattering mud everywhere. He snorted.  _I know your secret,_  he wanted to yell out. He'd never been very good about keeping secrets, and usually didn't bother if he didn't feel like it. But for some reason this hit close to home, though he could not possibly imagine  _why—_ he had nothing in common with Granger. Nothing. They were so unlike each other that it was comical that she'd been selected to mind him. Yet in this respect, in this small, private, lonely suffering, he felt he understood her.

They looked around the address, having a tough job of it as the houses were set so very closely together, and it seemed Amundsen's former neighbors were retired and quite nosy.

"We'll just knock and ask to go inside," Granger finally sighed, and turned to Alphard, stepping closer to him. Shielding her hand and wand from prying Muggle eyes, she conjured two rather convincing Muggle police badges. Grudgingly he admired her spellwork—it really was something to behold, sometimes. "Say we're with the local police; we've got a warrant to search the place."

"Alright," agreed Alphard, taking his badge and examining it. "Melvin?  _Really?_ " He shoved the badge in her face, all admiration for her spellwork erased. "What are you, Queen Elizabeth?"

"Just Elizabeth is fine," she said cheekily. Indeed, to his great disgust, she  _had_  taken the name Elizabeth as her false Muggle policewoman name.

"Do I look like a Melvin to you?" he demanded in a hiss as they went up the steps. Granger knocked on the door.

"Of course you do—I would never question your mother's choices," she hissed back, looking infuriatingly superior. Alphard was scowling at her, mentally sorting through his favorite Hexes—Sectumsempra was crude but always satisfying; it was a personal favorite of his—when the door opened.

"H-hello?" The tiny old woman, so stooped and little that she barely came up to Granger's shoulder, peered up at them through thick, pearly spectacles. She had a poorly-done hand-knitted shawl wrapped round her hunched, rounded shoulders. "Can I help you?" she wheezed. Alphard bit his lip.

"Hello, I'm chief detective inspector Elizabeth Middleton; this is detective inspector Melvin Dinklehurst. We've got a warrant to search your home." Granger held up a slip of paper that she'd pulled from nowhere as Alphard seethed. Wizard though he was, he knew where she'd gotten her inspiration for her own name, and had he not been so irritated by his own fake name, he'd've laughed at her audacity to choose such a royal name.

"Middleton! Are you related to the Duchess?" asked the old woman pleasantly. "You don't look like her at all though, she's such a lovely, tall girl—"

Alphard snorted into his hands, pretended to have coughed, while Granger cut her off.

"May we please come in," she asked loudly. Confused, the old woman hobbled to the side and gestured for them to enter. "Thank you, ma'am—oh, and I didn't get your name..."

"Jemima," she replied, leading them down the hall. The place reeked of cats; Alphard was beginning to wonder if Amundsen had some sort of affinity for old cat ladies. "Why've you got a warrant?"

"How long have you lived here, Jemima?" Alphard asked, as they entered the kitchen. He was trying to recall the description of Amundsen's near-capture here, and faintly recalled something about a garden shed... He peered out the window.

"Oh, about forty years," she replied, looking confused as she struggled to recall. Alphard discreetly nodded to Hermione, then to the dilapidated garden shed in the yard in the back.

"And do you recall where you were during the month of May, two years ago?" Granger asked. Alphard wanted to roll his eyes—what a ridiculous-sounding question. Really, it was hard to believe she and Potter had evaded capture by Voldemort all those years ago.

"Oh yes," began Jemima eagerly, "my niece flew me to Majorca for two months. It was lovely, the—"

"Thanks, ma'am—we'll just have a look around," interrupted Alphard. Granger shot him a warning look but nevertheless followed him out the back door into the yard, which was a small square of sod with patchy grass and a dying crape myrtle in the corner, wilting over the tiny shed. "How much you want to bet there's a body in there?" Alphard said in a low voice as they approached it, the wet wind whipping their hair and coats about them.

"Not much—Jemima would've been the one to kill, so who else would he kill?" she pointed out with a grimace. "I'd expect he didn't think of killing anyone yet at this point; probably just was staying in places that were convenient."

He didn't want to admit that she was probably right. He settled for hurrying on to the shed and ripping open the decaying wooden doors. They nearly came off the hinges, and Granger quickly mended them.

Inside smelled of mildewing wood, but there wasn't much in the shed. Granger muttered a few spells to help them locate a possible body, but—just as she had predicted—there was nothing of consequence to them.

"Well, this was a huge waste," Alphard said, kicking at a broken lawnmower.

"No, it wasn't. We've confirmed that there wasn't an Inferi created here, and that he was still unsophisticated in his hideouts," argued Granger. "Look for any signs to prove he's been here."

They scoured the shed but there was nothing conclusive—most likely, the Aurors had already stripped the shed of any evidence leading to Amundsen when they'd nearly captured him here, years ago.

For a moment, they stood in silence in the shed. The rain was coming down harder now, and began to seep through the roof, dripping down the sodden walls.

"Let's get out of here," he finally sighed. He glanced at Granger. She was still deep in thought, staring at a corner of the shed.

"Hold on—what's this?" She went to the corner and crouched down. "Look—a symbol."

His heartbeat quickened as he hastened to see. Indeed, scratched into the wood, barely visible, was a tiny symbol: a spiral with a slash through it. Something about it niggled his brain but he couldn't possibly think of where he'd seen it. "This wasn't in Amundsen's file," she said quietly. "I wonder..." She reached into her purse, from which issued clanking and thumping noises disproportionate to the size of it, and took out a camera. "I bet," she began, closing one eye and aiming the camera, "that we'd find this in places Amundsen has been."

He shook his head, marveling at her helplessly, as they both stood up again. "Not a waste at all," she said again happily, stowing her camera in her bag, which sounded like it contained an entire marching band from the noises it made as she dropped the camera inside. "I've never seen that symbol—it's definitely not a rune, doesn't follow any of the rules, so it's probably just a symbol someone made up."

"You don't think he made it up?" Alphard asked as they left the shed, breathing freely in the misty air again at last.

"Do you?" she asked skeptically, looking to him with furrowed brows. Alphard's mouth twisted as he thought.

"No, something about it seems familiar...Can't think why, though," he muttered.

The daylight was already fading; they thanked Jemima for her time and walked back towards the playground, each lost in thought. Alphard's mind seemed to squirm and write with this thought: had Granger not been there, he'd not have noticed the symbol... he was embarrassed to admit it, and would not admit it out loud, of course. He glanced at her sidelong and knew she was lost in thought pondering the symbol, and not lost in thought about him. She'd taken the lead and ignored him, mostly, and he'd never had a woman do that to him before. He was accustomed to girls becoming brainless creatures around him; simply following his suggestions and orders happily, like labradors.

"So," he began, as they reached the copse of trees that they had arrived at, "got any big plans for the evening?"

"Yes, Harry and Ginny's engagement party," she said vaguely. "You've never noticed that symbol anywhere to do with Amundsen before?"

"No, otherwise I'd've noted it," he said irritably. "Are you happy about their engagement?" he pressed on. They were standing under the trees now. Granger was looking round to check for any onlookers.

"Well, yes," she said, looking bemused. "It's not exactly a new thing, though."

"Ah." He paused. "So, you're not upset, or jealous...?"

She looked at him with shrewd eyes now.

"No, Black—I'm not sure how many times I'm going to have to say this before people put this theory to rest. I'm not in love with Harry," she said flatly. "And that's all we're going to say on the matter. Clear?"

"You seem a little irritable about it—"

"Because I'm tired of explaining myself!" she exploded, her face flushing. "Now, we're going back to the Ministry, and I'm going to search through Amundsen's file for this symbol, and see if anyone can tell me what it means, and you're going to decide on our next location, and we're going to go back to the seaside cottage we went to yesterday, and look for the symbol, and then we'll go to our next location." She was panted slightly when she was done. Something deep within Alphard roared to life, as it always did whenever he was given orders.

"Fine," he said shortly, and without another word, turned on the spot without her.


	4. Exopolitics

**Exopolitics**

* * *

An idea was forming in Harry's mind, taking shape even as he raced along the halls to Zabini's holding cell.

"You said Malfoy had lots of—well—admirers," he panted as he burst into Zabini's cell without preface.

Zabini was lounging in the same chair as usual, but was not reading. He looked up, unruffled by Harry's appearance.

"Lots of girlfriends, Potter, yes," he drawled, looking mostly amused. Harry caught his breath and shut the door to the cell behind him, and approached Zabini. The light from the magical windows was fading; he was meant to leave soon for his engagement party, but he had to do this first. Zabini was silhouetted by the warm sunset light behind him, but his eyes seemed to almost glow, set into his dark face.

"But he and Pansy were getting married, right?"

Zabini regarded him for a long moment.

"Parkinson was a suspect, but your department concluded she hadn't done it," he confirmed slowly, in a voice and with a presence that reminded Harry of why he had been given such an important promotion—over Hermione and Nott—in the Jurator department.

"Do you think there's any chance, though, that it was connected to that?"

"You're grasping at straws—not that this is anything new," said Zabini levelly, "but I see where you're going with this." He paused, looking like he was suffering some sort of inward battle.

"You know something," said Harry quickly, jumping on his chance before he lost it.

"I don't," insisted Zabini calmly. "But…if I were you…I would look around Malfoy Manor a bit more closely."

"Is that why you were there when Pansy saw you, even though you insisted to us you weren't?" asked Harry shrewdly. Zabini's lips curled in a smirk, and he met Harry's eyes, but he said nothing.

* * *

Hermione arrived at the Burrow still rain-drenched, with the Transfiguration of her robes wearing off, so that her Muggle trench coat was beginning to grow in length and loosen in fit to look more like her Jurator robes. The sky had darkened and the Burrow twinkled and glowed; bewitched fairy lights floated around it, giving the place an unusually festive feel. For a moment, Hermione stared at it, enjoying the rare peace and quiet of being outdoors, on her own, with no immediate demand on her keen mind.

Alphard's questioning had been infuriating enough that when she Apparated back to the Ministry and saw it was five o'clock, she simply decided to leave. It was unusual for her to leave on time, and she still felt defensive about it. She should have been using the extra time to change and make herself presentable for the engagement party, but somehow she found herself here, early, still soaked and frazzled.

She was tired of everybody assuming she carried some sort of torch for Harry when it could not have been further from the truth, which was that she found herself unable to carry a torch for anyone. Her work consumed her, and when she'd confronted Harry about not letting it happen to him the other day, she had been speaking from experience.

She was missing out on life and Harry's life was just starting—she didn't think it ought to end prematurely just because he was fixated on his job. Her own case was beyond help. She'd obsessed over work to avoid confronting her own memories and emotions about the war, and by the time she'd finally looked up from the figurative—and literal—parchment, years and years had gone by and her life was strangely empty, like a home that had been vacated. Like seeing impressions on the carpet left from furniture and scuffs and fingermarks on the walls, she could still see these last vestiges of meaning in her personal life, but they weren't  _really_  there anymore.

Swallowing a lump in her throat, she forced herself onward to the engagement party.

* * *

Inside, the Burrow was filled with the smells of Molly's cooking and suffused with warm, golden light from candles, and from fairy lights strung all around.

"Oh, thank goodness you're here—Ginny's upstairs in her room, and she needs help—would you, thank you, dear," bustled Molly, who was up to her arms in cooking, and red-faced with the effort. She barely looked at Hermione, and so Hermione smiled, offered up a few words of encouragement, and hurried to the stairs.

Ginny was in the room she'd grown up in. Of course, she and Harry now lived in their own flat together, but Hermione guessed she was feeling some apprehension and had needed to come home. She stood in the doorway of Ginny's room for a moment, watching as Ginny uncharacteristically fussed over her appearance.

As always, she could not be lovelier. Her waist-length red locks gleamed as though hit by sunlight even in the dim light of her room; her freckled pale skin had just the right flush of excitement and happiness to it; her slim-hipped, petite-yet-willowy figure that had often, during Hogwarts, caused Hermione to be sick with envy, was swathed in a strikingly short, daringly-cut dark green dress. What had once caused Hermione envy now made her swell with pride— _that's my best friend, everyone,_  she wanted to inform people. Clever, witty, lovely, athletic, brave, kind Ginny Weasley was  _her_  best friend, and she was finally getting everything she had always wanted and deserved.

"You look perfect, and I hate you," Hermione greeted wryly. Ginny turned and lunged at her best friend, throwing her arms around her and infusing Hermione's breathing air with her signature flowery perfume.

"Oh, I'm so glad you're here. Ugh, I don't even know why I'm nervous; I just am," she prattled, releasing Hermione. Never one to remain too focused on herself—even on such a big day for her—Ginny stepped back, surveying Hermione worriedly. "Were you just out on a mission? Harry mentioned you were shadowing Black for a while," she surmised, looking her over. "You're soaking wet; let me fix you up."

"Thanks," sighed Hermione gratefully. Just as with her house-keeping spells, her beauty charms had never been her strongest suit—perhaps due to how little she practiced them, or perhaps how little her heart was in them. Ginny frog-marched her to the little cushioned seat at her vanity and began pragmatically mumbling spells to neaten Hermione's hair and make her more resemble herself and less resemble a drowned rat.

"That's better," said Ginny finally, adjusting a lock of Hermione's hair almost absently. Hermione smiled gratefully at her friend in the mirror. "How is it?" she asked tentatively, sitting down on the edge of her bed. "With Black, I mean," she clarified. Hermione twisted on the vanity seat to look at Ginny, and shrugged.

"It's...you know," she finished haplessly. "He's a very difficult man."

"I've heard as much," said Ginny grimly. "I personally can barely look at him without remembering  _her_ ," she added darkly.

For Hermione, she only occasionally saw Bellatrix in Alphard, and more often saw Sirius—particularly, Sirius at his most sulky and rebellious. She was just about to say as much when there was a series of loud bangs coming from downstairs, followed by Molly's shrill shrieking of rage, which meant that George had arrived. Grinning ruefully at each other, Hermione went downstairs to assist Molly, while Ginny begged off, saying she wanted a few more moments of peace.

 _It must be an emotional day for Ginny_ , Hermione pondered as she went downstairs, now clothed in her sweeping black Jurator robes. If she and Ginny were the same size, she could have borrowed something, but she'd have to make do with her oddly severe robes.

"Oi, Hermione," greeted George hastily—he was in the process of ducking away from Molly's sailing frying pan. Hermione gave a wave and a wry smile before slinking off to hide in the kitchen.

Guests arrived, and her mood plummeted. As she often found herself lately, with no real life of her own, her own life became consumed by those of others, and now she was caught in a renewed feud between Angelina and Fleur.

"And that ungrateful French bitch," Angelina was seething as they stood in a corner, staring at Fleur. Fleur was tossing her hair and laughing at something Bill and George were discussing. "You don't think you could say something, do you, Hermione? I'd really appreciate it." Angelina, her face genial and attractive, flashed Hermione a brilliant smile. It was this moment that Hermione realized she'd not been listening at all, and had no idea of what she was meant to advise Fleur on.

"Of course," she said graciously. Angelina's dark eyes twinkled and she hugged her.

"You're the best, Hermione, you really are," she said in a rush.

Not five minutes later saw Hermione cornered in the kitchen by a rabid-looking Fleur who was darkly brandishing a spatula dripping with suds, her eyes wild.

"And zen she haz ze nerve to tell  _me_  how to cook ze steak!  _I am French,_  pardon moi. I zink I know better zan 'er how to cook my steaks!" She faltered and gave Hermione a soft, fond smile. "You know, 'Ermione, you are always so very good with Angelina. If you said something, I am sure she would listen."

"Of course," she said dully, mopping her face. Fleur beamed.

"Oh, I am so very lucky!" she clamored, clapping her hands in delight.

Hermione left, mumbling an unintelligible excuse, as her weariness caught up to her. She wandered into the living room, finding herself between Ron, Harry, and George.

"That prat," said George in a low voice. "Got what was coming to him." He took a long swig of his butterbeer, his face twisted into a look of hatred that Hermione rarely saw on him. Dimly she realized they were discussing Malfoy.

"I dunno, I reckon he had been atoning, y'know," Ron muttered, his face blotchy with inebriation. Harry was silent, his gaze fixed on Ginny, who was dutifully listening to Luna ramble on.

"I ought to go help," Hermione said, meeting Harry's eyes. Harry sighed.

"No, I'll go." She could tell he was similarly exhausted, and watched him drag himself over to Ginny and Luna.

"Alright, Hermione?" Ron asked pleasantly, his eyes looking out of focus as he swayed slightly on his feet.

"Fine," she said shortly. "Listen, I'm going to head out—got a lot of work to do."

"Always the life of the party, 'Mione," snarked George, saluting her with his drink. Something inside her snapped.

"Fuck off," she hissed. George's eyes widened in surprise and—perhaps—some measure of admiration, and then she turned on her heel and left, before anyone could stop her.

When out in the cool night air again, she took long, gulping breaths, as her face burned with shame. What had she done? Looking back, she had behaved horribly. It was Harry and Ginny's night, and she had acted like it was some sort of chore.

She went back to her flat, but it was painfully empty. Feeling wild and impulsive and fearful of being alone with her own gloom, she left her flat and walked to the Leaky Cauldron.

She'd never been one for drinking, really. She sat at the bar and Tom immediately had a pot of tea ready for her. Smiling gratefully, she sat there. She'd grabbed a book on her way out, but found herself unable to bear the thought of focusing on the small print. She could have thought about the cases she was working on at work, but she couldn't bring herself to think about work.

"Ah, there's Nott," muttered Tom, as he wiped down the bar again. "He was in your year, right?"

"Yes, and we work together," said Hermione, twisting in her seat as she marveled at Tom's memory. Indeed, Nott had arrived, swathed in his usual finely-made black cloak. He looked worn and unhappy—exactly how she imagined she was looking.

She debated the merits of calling out to him, versus simply hiding and hoping he didn't spot her, but too late he had noticed her and offered a limp wave.

"Granger," he nodded in greeting, and sat down next to her. She couldn't tell whether she was glad or not for the company, and it was obvious that he was second-guessing his decision.

His already rabbity, worn face looked lined—he'd had deep lines, like a marionette, around his mouth by the time he was twenty. She supposed it was a side-effect of having been through a war. She certainly looked older than her age. "Firewhiskey," he muttered at Tom, and accepted the glass of amber liquid.

"I didn't figure you for a drinker, Nott," she said in amusement. Nott's lips twisted wryly.

"Unfortunate habit I picked up when I moved out," he confessed, twisting his glass on the bar, leaving trails of condensation, before taking a sip. "And you with your tea." He seemed nervous, unsure of what to say. She felt the same—what could they talk about, other than work?

"I was at Harry and Ginny's engagement party," she confessed, changing the subject. It was a relief to let the words out. Nott watched her face carefully. "I just…maybe I've gotten more selfish, but sometimes it's hard to see people so happy."

As soon as the words were out of her mouth she knew how true they were, and she knew she hadn't realized until this moment that this was how she felt. To her surprise, Nott let out a callous laugh.

"Welcome to my life," he said in a hollow voice, though he clearly had intended to sound humorous. He was swirling his firewhiskey in its glass now, his eyes fixed on it. "Everyone's so bloody happy, and how do they do it?" The desperation leaked from his voice. "It looks so easy."

"Yes," Hermione said quietly. Something tightened round her chest, making it hard to breathe. "I feel like I'm missing something—like—like I don't know  _how_."

"Like you were born with something wrong with you?"

She swallowed, nodding, though this wasn't precisely true. It was more like the war had never left her, like she had once been whole and was now broken; a piece was missing and would never come back to her. Conjuring a Patronus had always been hard for her; she'd not attempted it since that day—the Battle of Hogwarts—because she was too afraid to find out that she couldn't do it anymore.

"Look at us," she said, trying to pull herself from this dark spiral. "We sound so melancholy."

"I always knew we would understand each other," said Nott, still looking at his glass. Hermione bristled.

"Oh really? Was that what made it so easy for you to call me  _mudblood_?" Her temper was flaring. Nott snorted; he remained unruffled by her temper.

"No, I was just weakened by peer pressure, and I never bothered to think long enough of how it made you feel. I'm not proud of it but there's no other excuse."

The straightforwardness of his response was startling. "I was always impressed by your intelligence in school, but I thought you had to be an exception. Working with you changed my mind about my own bigotry—but my father finally dying did that, too."

It was the most he had ever spoken to her about something other than a case. Hermione was riveted.

"He died?"

"You-know-who did him in. Before the Battle." He drained his glass. "Good riddance—he was a horrible man. Old, too—I was shocked he'd lasted so long, you know."

She couldn't recall hearing that Nott's father had been one of the murdered Death Eaters, but then, no one ever mentioned Nott much. He was usually forgotten. "What about your parents? I have heard you performed quite the memory charm..." He was so informal, so loose with his language, compared to how she usually saw him. It was jarring. Hermione flushed.

"I lifted the enchantment," she explained. "I see them a couple times a month now. It's still a bit…well, you know." She didn't know how to explain the strangeness of her relationship with her parents now.

"At least they're there. At least they want you as their daughter."

Hermione was torn between compassion for the hollow home life that Nott must have had and the impatience she always felt around people like Nott, who had enjoyed the benefits of being cossetted, protected by someone of Voldemort's inner circle without ever having to exert themselves morally and make a choice between the dark and the light. Nott had been able to hang round Hogwarts as it descended into the clutches of evil, safe as a Pureblood, and then had been able to get a job as soon as the war was done, because he'd never "done" anything wrong. He had never been an outcast, had never ventured to go against the tide.

She felt more compassion for Malfoy.

At least he'd made a choice.

"Well, like you said, he's gone now, and good riddance," she said briskly, watching with concern as Nott took another drink. There was something stagey about his sudden inebriation, almost as though he was uncertain of how he was meant to act when pissed. "I really think you shouldn't drink anymore."

This was not how she had expected—or wanted—this evening to go.

"Thank you for your input," he snapped, more clarity to his voice than moments before. He softened and took another long swig of firewhiskey. "Really, I am fine." He set down his newly emptied glass and, warily, Tom refilled it without a word. Hermione attempted to make eye contact with the bartender, to subtly—wordlessly—ask him if this was some sort of routine, but Tom turned his old stooped back to them, leaving Hermione to stew in frustration.

"Alphard Black thinks I'm in love with Harry," she remarked, eager to change the subject once again, having been staring at her tea, after several moments' contemplative silence. Nott snorted.

"Black's got all the perception of a pixie's arse," he said snidely. Hermione choked on her tea.

"Did something…er…happen between you two?" she asked delicately.

"No. I have no idea why he dislikes me so much. From the start, we've been enemies, though it's truly one-sided, I assure you." He was polishing off his fourth glass of firewhiskey. Though Nott was taller than any man she knew—excluding Hagrid (and Grawp, for that matter)—he was extremely underweight, and she was not clear on how well a man of his size could metabolize that much firewhiskey. It was enough, surely, to have killed someone her own size now, or at least come very close to it.

"I really think you should stop for the night," she said quickly, clapping a hand over his glass. Nott looked at her with brown eyes, slightly unfocused.

"Perhaps you're right," he said vaguely. "I should get home, really. This is pathetic." He fumbled with his cloak for his wallet and left far too many Galleons on the bar, then went to stand and promptly dropped to the ground.

"Oh, dear," Hermione groaned, staring down at his crumpled body, feeling Tom the bartender's eyes on her back.

* * *

Alphard was passing through the Leaky Cauldron, on his way to Knockturn Alley to meet with some long-missed school friends, when he spotted Granger seated with Nott at the bar, their heads bowed together; they were locked in apparently intimate discussion. He paused, safe from their view on the other side of the bar, and briefly observed them.

The usual twinge of dislike for Nott rippled through him with ease; he instead watched Granger, who was—of course—not drinking alcohol, and instead had a steaming cup of tea before her. She was enraptured, listening as Nott spoke. What could he possibly be saying that was of so great an interest?

He watched them another moment longer, then could no longer bear it, and looked away, seething with general irritation for Nott, and for Granger, and for their last moment together today before parting. Her reaction to his words had been all the confirmation he had needed, and as he stalked out of the Leaky Cauldron, he contemplated Potter's likely ignorance of Granger's long-harbored passion for him.

The idiocy of it all was both satisfying and infuriating.

How could Potter be so blind—and how could Granger possibly continue to have feelings for someone who bore so little feeling for her beyond that which might be found between siblings?

Alphard continued on, determined to not let thoughts of Granger and all of her petty problems consume him like this.

* * *

"'umiliating," Nott slurred, stumbling along, supported by Hermione. "Got a mudblood taking me home, well, times have changed," he was muttering. Hermione's face was beet-red under the weight of him.

"I could just drop you here and leave you here to choke on your own vomit, and don't you forget it," she gasped, the effect of her words somewhat dashed by her wheezing.

"Then do it," goaded Nott in her ear.

"Tempted," she shot back.

They paused in front of Nott Manor as she watched Nott vomit spectacularly into a row of boxwoods by the front door. Hermione watched him, feeling the weight of her own exhaustion—both physical and emotional—on her shoulders, to her bones.

'Manor' was a bit of a stretch. It was a large, rickety house—the sort of which her parents always delightedly referred to as 'firetraps.' Indeed, there was a blackened portion of the face of the house on the top floor, along the windows, to suggest remnants of an extremely powerful curse. Was that where Nott's father had been murdered?

Nott straightened, wiping vomit from his mouth as he swayed on his feet. Hermione stared at him in apathy.

"How's the firewhiskey on the way up?" she asked, crossing her arms. Nott rolled his eyes, then instantly regretted it as a new wave of nausea washed over him, and he turned back to the boxwoods.

She must have been hormonal—her feelings were changing from one minute to the next. She felt sorry for him suddenly again. "Oh, come on—I'll help you up to your room," she said disgustedly.

The house smelled like old parchment and piss; it had not been cleaned in quite some time and it was evident someone quite elderly had lived here. Hermione thought she spotted a House Elf darting out of sight, but other than that it was quite empty and silent. Her throat and nose tingled from the heaviness of the dust.

"Come on, upstairs with you," she ordered. He was too heavy to drag up the stairs but she was concerned that  _levicorpus_  would render him choking on his own vomit. Thus she half-dragged, half-magically propelled Nott up the stairs with her, stopping frequently, and at one point swinging rather hard into the wall and nearly knocking herself out. She let out a yelp of pain, which Nott apparently did not register.

Finally she reached his room—she knew it was his because his was the only open door. Scowling, she hurled him onto his large bed. The room was neat but she wondered if that was Nott's usual fastidiousness or if a House Elf had been involved.

After setting him up with a glass of water and a bucket, Hermione left his room. She smelled like vomit and her face was aching from having hit the wall; her left side, which had been supporting Nott's weight, was weak and trembling.

Curioisity and a certain righteousness—she had  _earned_  it—propelled her to venture into the large study which was sequestered from the parlor. Unlike the rest of the house, the study was not so cluttered and dusty, and instead contained a neatly-kept bookshelf, an expansive cherry wood desk, and several cabinets which she assumed contained paperwork.

The desk surface was clear, save for an inkwell and a scroll. The scroll caught her eye; it was held open by a glass paperweight. The names  _Malfoy_  and  _Parkinson_ were scrawled along the top in Nott's elegant script.

It was common knowledge that Zabini had been the Jurator handling the Malfoy-Parkinson union—yes, even in the wizarding world, the rich had pre-nuptial agreements and such. Hermione went to the desk and peered at the scroll, quickly scanning as though the faster she did the thing, the less immoral it was.

It was innocuous enough—merely an agreement on the distribution of property—but something about it seemed furtive. Hermione was positive that Zabini was handling this case; he had even ventured to seek her opinion on a number of tricky items. Nott had offered to handle the case, but Draco had turned him down, mysteriously.

The house was so silent and empty that even from this study she could hear Nott's retching. The noise brought her back to reality, and, with a shake of her head, Hermione left Nott manor.

* * *

"You'll want to see this," panted Ron, gesturing for Hermione to follow him. He did not stop long enough to get a good look at her, luckily. She really couldn't take the stares. She'd gotten a black eye and an awful bruise on her face from where she'd hit the wall in Nott's home, and she still felt weak and grimy. Nott's office remained dark—she presumed he'd be out of commission for at least another day, judging by how ill he had been the previous evening. She set aside her scroll, rolling her eyes.

"What started it?" she humored him, following him through the cubicles to the lift. Ron suddenly seemed avoidant; he studied the floor of the lift, not meeting her eyes.

"Er," he said helplessly. Perhaps it was due to the lift's lurching movements, but Hermione's stomach gave a great lurch as well. Something told her she wouldn't like the answer, and seeing as she had known Ron longer than she hadn't, it wasn't  _exactly_  mere instinct that told her that it had something to do with her.

The Auror training area was separate from the Auror department, and was on a floor of its own. There were several dueling rooms, and a sort of obstacle course, which was used not only as part of the Auror application, but also for evaluations and brush-ups in skill. Since Hermione had had to work with the Auror department so regularly, she had been subjected to the obstacle course, which luckily greatly resembled Lupin's Defense Against the Dark Arts end of term exam, if a bit more difficult. She'd run through it easily, but had taken too much time—Harry had been the fastest, by far.

The records for times through the course were posted on a piece of parchment in the entrance hall to the floor. Harry's name was at the number one spot, with his time being thirty-six minutes and forty seven seconds.

Alphard's time was just below his—thirty six minutes, fifty eight seconds. The next name was Moody's, at thirty nine minutes. The gap was noteworthy. Of course, others had never before felt the pressure to compete for the best time, and these days speed was far more heavily emphasized than ever before. Some of the best Aurors—Furness himself—had taken well over two hours to complete the course, and had gotten high points for their creative or intellectual methods to getting past each obstacle.

Still, it was noteworthy that Alphard had clearly strived to beat Harry's time—and come rather close, at that.

"Hurry, or we'll miss it," said Ron, rushing her along.

The dueling arenas were small rooms, conjoined to observation rooms. These were also used as part of the Auror application and evaluation processes, and here Hermione had dueled as well. She followed Ron into the observation room, where a crowd of Aurors had already gathered and were watching Harry and Alphard.

"Oh, no," Hermione moaned, rushing to the window and at once wanting to shield her eyes. It was rare for Auror duels to get bloody—why would anyone  _want_  to cause a coworker harm?—and that added all the more shock to the sight.

"Potter and Black have similar dueling styles," Whelkes explained to her as she winced, watching Alphard fire what she assumed was Sectumsempra at Harry. The walls were white in the dueling room; the better to see spells and Hexes more clearly from the observation room. Lines of blood splatter were flung in long spines along the floor and walls.

The side of Harry's face was covered in blood, and Alphard looked pale and weak, barely able to stand, leaving bloody footprints as he stumbled, but his eyes more alert than ever. "Rapid-fire, not a lot of deliberation or finesse, not easily blocked, but then, not usually aimed too carefully, either. Only difference is that Potter disarms and Black always curses."

"What in Merlin's name  _happened_?" Hermione breathed, staring in shock. No one seemed to have an answer for her.

* * *

Harry looked up at his opponent again, and at once had to look away slightly. The full force of Black's fury was felt when another curse was unleashed at him.  _You've got to get past it._ Ginny's words rang in his head, and like an invisible hand was pulling his chin, he looked at Black again.  _He's not Sirius. He never even_ met _Sirius,_ Ginny had reasoned desperately, looking like she longed to shake Harry.

 _But he looks and sounds_ exactly _like him,_ Harry had rebuked, hating the emotion twisting his voice, hating Alphard Black for having escaped the fate that had met all of the other members of the house of Black.

"Look at me," hissed Black, his dark eyes flashing. "For once, Potter, fucking  _look at me._ "

How had it even come to this?

Harry supposed it had been coming for a year now—ever since Alphard Black had been poached from Germany to come to Britain's Auror department. He'd heard the name, heard that Alphard was a cousin, heard that he'd attended Durmstrang and had never known his cousins, but he hadn't been prepared to see what he thought, for one fleeting, aching instant swollen with hope, terror, agony, and fierce love, was the ghost of his godfather.

That first day that Alphard had arrived, of course, Harry had stood there, staring, and come to his senses. Alphard looked cared-for and loved in the ways Sirius never had; though he was not much younger than Sirius had been when Harry had met him, he'd not spent the last ten years in Azkaban, of course, and it showed: Alphard looked how Sirius would have looked in the absence of Voldemort. The whites of his eyes were milky and clear; his hair, cut around his elegant jawline, though mussed was thick and dark and gleaming with health; his pale, lightly freckled skin was unmarred and unlined; his teeth were straight; he had walked into the Ministry as though he owned the place.

"Durmstrang," Ron had muttered unhappily next to him that day that Alphard Black had been inducted into the Ministry's Auror department. For an unkind moment, Harry had thought Ron was referencing his old grudge against all things related to Viktor Krum; he had quickly been corrected when Ron had pointed out the well-known tolerance of the Dark Arts that Durmstrang exercised.

They had seen evidence of it almost immediately. Alphard Black's evaluation had more resembled a Dark wizard's demonstration rather than the evaluation of a candidate for a magical police task force. His dueling teemed with Hexes and barely-legal Jinxes; he was mercilessly competitive; and when he had seen the small plaque bearing Harry's time for the obstacle course, he had done anything and everything to beat it—and had come quite close.

Unfortunately, he had also proven, from the start, to be a damn good Auror. He was clever—he saw things coming, anticipated the moves of Dark wizards with an intuition only Harry and Moody had possessed. He was charming—he knew how to manipulate others to get what he wanted. He was daring—he often marched alongside Harry into almost certain death. In other words, he was all of the best qualities of the Black family combined.

However, he also comprised the worst of the Black family. He was reckless, moody, secretive, easily offended, arrogant, and utterly lacking in humility. Add to that a disturbing taste for violence, and just weeks ago Harry had witnessed him fire the Cruciatus Curse, followed by the Killing Curse, at a Dark wizard they were hunting, without a second thought.

Harry had been captain of that team of Aurors. When consulted by Furness on whether a hearing was necessary, Harry had been sorely tempted to say  _yes,_  a hearing was necessary, in addition to immediate suspension and possible expulsion from the Auror department.

But in his heart he had seen the origin of what Black had done: he had simply done the math faster than he or Whelkes had, and had not cared enough of the consequences to deliberate over his actions any further. He had weakened the wizard by torturing him, thus getting a confession from him; then, when the wizard had attempted to retaliate, Alphard had acted.

Had Alphard not killed their target, Whelkes—and a handful of other junior Aurors—would be dead now. No matter what Kingsley had insisted, Alphard had saved them.

But all that, for Harry, didn't erase the wicked delight he'd spotted in Alphard's dark eyes, so like Sirius', as he had fired the Cruciatus curse at his opponent as carelessly as if he'd fired the limb-locking curse. He'd glimpsed Black's deeper nature, and he had not liked it.

Alphard seethed, the world spinning round him, and flung an arm out to stabilize himself against the wall. Potter wasn't in better shape; as Alphard was so accustomed, he was now met with the sight of Potter's striking profile.

Because Potter literally could not  _bear_  to look at him.

" _Diffindo,_ " Alphard fumed under his breath, though Potter turned to block it, and bellowed  _"Expelliarmus!"_  as, for one fleeting instant, their eyes met, and Alphard was gutted by the anguish he saw in those eyes.

"This is over, Black," barked Potter.

"You sound like you think you're my superior," sneered Alphard, straightening in spite of the considerable pain he was in.

Potter turned again as Alphard's heart twisted painfully in his ribcage, writhing in rage.

"That's because he is."

Granger had stepped into the dueling room. She looked like hell, as usual, with bags under her eyes, and a purpling bruise under her left eye. When had she gotten  _that_? Her robes were wrinkled and her hair was more disheveled than ever. "Black, it is my job to supervise you. You are on probation, or did you forget?" Her voice rang throughout the dueling room. Potter straightened.

"Hermione, it was—"

"—I don't want to hear it, Harry," she said without looking at Potter, her eyes still locked with Alphard's. "Come on, Black—we're going to be having a little discussion about this. In private."

She marched out of the room. Alphard looked to his opponent once more. Potter was staring down at the ground. Alphard pushed past him to follow Granger, a ringing in his ears.

* * *

"What in the name of Merlin was that?"

The infirmary room was dark; storm clouds were visible through the artificial windows, and no one had bothered to light the torches. Alphard was seated on the low cot, watching Granger, who stood, leaning against the cabinets, staring at him.

"We decided to duel."

Hermione stared at Alphard. He was not looking at her.

"Why?" She would not be brushed off so easily. "Don't even think about lying. I want the truth—the whole truth, Black," she added acidly.

"I criticized his handling of the Malfoy case," said Alphard levelly, finally meeting her eyes. Once more, against her wishes, a ripple of attraction, of appreciation for those handsome clever eyes, softened by thick lashes, ran through her. She pushed the observation aside. He rose to his feet. "Zabini doesn't belong in that holding cell." He paused.

Hermione thought of what she had seen at Nott Manor last night. "And," he continued, in a lower, bitter voice, as he advanced on her, a dark silhouette in the dim light, "if he wanted me suspended, he should have bloody well just made it happen. I don't need his pity."

She had the sudden realization that this feud between Harry and Alphard was much bigger than she could handle. It was beyond her—or anyone's—control.

"Why would he want you suspended?"

"Because I killed that Dark wizard," he said impatiently.

"Why did you kill him?" she prompted.

"Because he was going to kill us," shot back Alphard.

"If that's really the case, Harry will see that." She bit her lip, watching blood trickle down Alphard's temple. "Are you harmed anywhere else? I had some Healer training; I can clean you up."

She turned away from him, eager to get away from his blistering gaze, and fussed about the counter, hunting around for Dittany. She heard Alphard behind her; she heard the rustle of cloth signifying he was stripping down. Her face flamed and her hands became clammy, her fingers slippery on the glass phials. She turned round.

Alphard's bare back was to her, and vivid black lettering across his shoulder blades stuck out against his pale, lightly freckled skin. It was in runes, but ones she wasn't familiar with.

"Oh." She started. Alphard looked over his shoulder at her, a roguish look in his eyes.

"Don't enjoy the show too much, Granger." The normalcy of this interaction lightened the mood a little, but she still felt a writhing in her gut.

"What does it mean?" she asked. "Your tattoo."

He turned back and finished shrugging out of his clothes, leaving him in just black pants and black boots. He sat down on the cot again. Harry had done some significant damage; a long slash across Alphard's pectoral muscles and down to his rib cage was leaving angry red trails of blood. "Oh dear," she said uneasily. "Here, take this and put it on the gash—that should be cleaned properly."

"Thanks." The tension returned, strung tight between them. "So what happened to your eye?"

"Ran into a wall," she replied, scowling as she recalled the previous evening. She was aware that Alphard was avoiding answering her question, and the curiosity was killing her. If she could at least see the runes once more, she might be able to memorize them and look them up...

* * *

Harry siphoned the blood off of him; Alphard had done significant damage but he wanted a moment alone before venturing to the infirmary where he knew Alphard and Hermione were. He saw red as he thought of Alphard once more, and futilely tried to put the man out of his mind. However, the image of Alphard's eyes flashing, his smooth pale lips forming the criticisms that had been closest to Harry's own heart... They returned repeatedly, washing over him like waves. Alphard had seen what no one else had seen, or, at least, what no one else had had the courage to comment on...

He went to his office and changed into a fresh set of Auror robes; in the little mirror in the closet in his office, he mopped his face and tried his best to tame his hair. It would do for now. The cuts and points of contact with Alphard's powerful Hexes ached, and Harry was determined to focus so singularly on his work that he forgot his pain and humiliation.

He strode to Zabini's holding cell. He would question him once more, then let him go. He had been keeping him here for too many days—in that, as well, Black had been right.

He slid open the door after using his wand to unlock it. Zabini's chair was turned away, to face the window. Over the arm of the chair he saw Zabini's elegant hand hanging limply. Was he being dramatic?

"Zabini," he began, his voice breaking, "I'm releasing you. I can't hold you here any longer; you aren't a suspect anymore. But if you want to help catch the murderer, you've got to tell me why you were at Malfoy Manor after the time of death."

No response.

Was he sleeping? Harry went to the chair. "Zabini?"

He came round to face Zabini. At once there was a rushing in his ears. The world had regained the surreal, too saturated and too slow quality that it had had while dueling Black.

Zabini's blue eyes were open but unseeing.

* * *

"...So. What's my punishment?" Alphard's light tone was forced. Hermione turned back to him, holding a cloth sopping with astringent. She wanted to laugh.

"That's not up to me, but I suspect there will not be punishment." She thought back to the moment she had entered the room. She had never seen that look on Harry's face before. She handed Alphard the cloth, watching as he cleaned his gashes himself, the lean sinew twisting appealingly in his forearms and chest as he moved. She had to turn to look away. She busied herself with tidying up uselessly, then turned once more in time to see Alphard shrugging back on his Auror robes.

"Here." He pulled out his wand and uttered a healing spell. At once the pressure building over her left eye lightened. She had been so busy she'd not even thought to heal her own injuries.

"...Thanks," she mumbled, touching her face. The unexpected kindness from Alphard prompted her to confess. "I ran into Nott at the Leaky Cauldron, and he was so drunk he couldn't get himself home. I tried to carry him home, and...well, he was quite heavy, even with magical help," she explained in a rush. She realized now that she and Alphard were standing quite close, and she reflexively took a step back. She considered telling him about what she had found at Nott manor, but something held her back.

"I saw you two in the Leaky Cauldron," he replied, looking briefly amused at something. "Perhaps he fancies you."

"Absolutely not," she groaned immediately. For a brief flash, there had been kinship between them, then was abruptly obliterated as they seemed to simultaneous recall their conversation from yesterday.

They turned away. Hermione gathered her things, and Alphard straightened his clothes. Outside in the hall there was a commotion, and Hermione wondered what had happened. She looked out the window, willing herself to prompt Alphard on what they should do today about Amundsen. She drew in a breath, about to speak, when she heard Alphard's voice, low and bitter.

"Shame," he said.

"Hm?"

They faced each other once more.

His gaze was blistering. He pierced her. "My tattoo," he said softly. "It means shame."


	5. Hysteria

**Hysteria**

* * *

She had not yet recovered from the intensity of Alphard's words when the door exploded open, revealing Whelkes.

"Zabini's been found dead in his cell," he panted, before running off.

Hermione and Alphard looked at each other once more. Alphard was like a live wire; she could see from his posture that his muscles were tensed, coiled; he was ready to attack but his readiness was for nothing. It was too late.

"D-dead," she stammered dumbly. "I don't…"

"Whoever it was must have found it convenient that we were all missing for a good hour," Alphard said, shaking his head. "Come on. Potter will need you."

She had been staring at the open door, watching other Aurors run by. She was jarred from her thoughts when she felt a solid grasp on her upper arm. She looked up at Alphard in surprise and felt her face flush, humiliatingly, at the contact. Was she really getting flustered at a time like  _this?_

"Harry doesn't need me," she sighed, prising herself from his grip. Alphard's lips twitched as though he found her funny.

"Trust me—he does."

* * *

Harry had been forced to sit in the meeting room, and somehow, a shotglass of firewhiskey was sitting before him at the table. Ron was sitting next to him, his hand on the back of his chair.

"I reckon this will help," Ron said gently, nodding to the firewhiskey.

"That is the last thing I want right now," Harry said flatly, staring sullenly at the amber liquid. "Zabini died because I let my emotions get the better of me." He punched the table, sending the glass flying and causing Ron to draw in a sharp breath. Ron quickly halted the glass' trajectory with a hasty slash of his wand, and placed a steadying hand on Harry's shoulder.

"Been meaning to ask you about that. What did Black say?" His voice was low, concerned. "What did he say that made you so…angry?" Harry could not look at Ron.

"Nothing."

"Right. So you beat the living daylights out of him in the dueling room  _because he said nothing."_  Ron scoffed. "Harry, I've not seen you like that since—since—well, since Malfoy, honestly."

"It's nothing. Forget about it." He mopped his face.

Before Ron could continue to pester him, the door opened, revealing Kingsley, Furness, Whelkes, Black, and, worst of all, Hermione. Harry shot Black a mutinous look; Black countered it with arched brows, his gait shifted from a stride to a strut.  _You know I'm right,_ his face seemed to say. Harry wanted to punch it. This time, he thought with vicious desire, he'd not hold back. He didn't want to use magic. He did not want magic; he wanted blunt, brute force. He wanted to punch Black and feel the satisfying crack of crushed cartilage.

"Well, this has been an eventful day," Kingsley said, looking between Harry and Black. "Weasley—dismissed. I'll talk to you later," he reassured Ron, who obediently rose from his chair and left, though not without sending a look to Harry. He could not read Ron's face—had it been an encouragement, or a warning?

"I don't see why Ron has to leave," Harry countered, sitting up straighter. He was glad Ron had vanished the glass of firewhiskey; even though he hadn't been the one to get it, he didn't relish looking any more out of control than he already did.

"He's not involved, and he doesn't—didn't," corrected Kingsley hastily, "—know Zabini."

"Potter and Black were dueling, which took away all of the Aurors from their offices, leaving the Auror department entirely empty except for Zabini and the killer," summarized Furness crisply as they all took seats. Harry could not look at Hermione out of shame nor Black out of rage, but Kingsley looked so disappointed with him that he couldn't look at him either. Furness was irritating him, so he settled for glowering at the table.

"I heard," said Kingsley acidly. "Can you explain  _why_  you—our two top Aurors, who both are  _supposedly_  overworked with cases—took time away from your jobs to duel?" Kingsley leant forward and paused. "And if either of you gives me some bullshit story about training, well…" He trailed off, arching his brows meaningfully. Black paled; he no longer was gloating.

"It's irrelevant," said Black. "A discussion that got out of hand." He was studying the tabletop with unusual zeal.

" _Out of hand?_ " Kingsley let out a callous bark of laughter.

"I request that Granger and Furness step out of the room for a moment," Black said now. Harry looked up at him in surprise. "Our discussion was of an extremely sensitive nature and the fewer who know the particulars of it, the better."

"I am your boss, Black," Furness warned him.

"All due respect, sir—Black is right. The discussion was…inflammatory," Harry chimed in hastily. Kingsley rolled his eyes.

"That's putting it mildly. Alright—let's get this over with. Granger, Furness—why don't you two grab some strong coffee? It's going to be a long night, sounds like. I'll deal with these two and let you know."

Hermione's eyes were wide as she looked searchingly at Harry, desperately attempting to silently communicate.

Harry looked away.

The door clicked shut, leaving the three of them in the room. "So," Kingsley prompted. "We have a prisoner and suspect dead because of this duel. This had better be good."

"I cornered Potter about a personal matter. The discussion escalated." Black's voice was flat.

"What personal matter?" Kingsley's patience was clearly wearing  _very_  thin. Harry shifted in his seat.

"He—er—accused me of taking advantage of someone else's feelings while having no intentions of acting on them. And accused me, additionally, of…" he could not even get the words out.

"He's leading Granger on and just uses her and enjoys the attention and pretends he's oblivious, and he's letting his confused feelings for Malfoy ruin his handling of the case," Black finished for him, glowering.

There was a long moment of silence.

"Potter, I've known you a long time now, and in all of that time, I've never known you to react so violently to such stupidity."

Harry would have liked to crawl under the table and simply burrow into the earth and disappear forever. He could not look at Kingsley. "I'm hardly surprised that you would spout such idiocy, Black, but Potter, I would have thought this would be beneath you."

"Thank you,  _Minister,_ " Black drawled. Kingsley shot Black a look.

"You have been nothing but incendiary since day one, Black. You're an excellent Auror but that is where my respect for you ends."

Kingsley and Black were staring at each other mutinously. Harry expected Black to retaliate, but he said nothing. "You know I am aware of your  _history_  so you should feel very lucky to have a place here and not Azkaban."

Harry's guts seemed to freeze. What history? Black continued to meet Kingsley's gaze.

"I've already paid for my wrongdoings," he said levelly. "That's more than most can say." He rose from his seat. "I'm going to get back to work. We all know that it's someone in the Ministry who killed Zabini, so this is a waste of time."

"And we all know that you are  _this_  close to getting fired, so, yes—go," said Kingsley darkly.

The door clicked shut once more; Harry avoided Kingsley's eyes.

"History?" he prompted bitterly.

"Forget that," Kingsley dismissed. "Are you having an affair with Granger?"

"No!"

"Then why did you get so mad?" His voice was gentler now.

"He accused me of leading on my best friend and having… _feelings…_ for Malfoy, Kingsley." He fumed again with the recollection of how silky Black's voice had gone as he had uttered those words...

"And those words came from someone who looks exactly like Sirius." His voice was understanding and gentle. Harry slumped in his seat as the tension left him. "It bothers me too, Potter. Hard to look at him."

"Y-yeah." His voice broke. "Let's get Furness and Hermione back in here. I just want to do my job," he finished hollowly.

* * *

Hermione went back to her office, numb with shock. Zabini's office, darkened, appeared haunted as she passed by it. She retreated to her own office, thinking of how this was the end of all those amusing little debates she and Zabini had shared. She locked the door, and sat at her desk, with her head in her hands.

The thing she couldn't get out of her mind: it was too convenient for the entire Auror department to have been abandoned. And what had Alphard said that had upset Harry so much? Had her earlier hunch—that it had been related to her—been correct? Her stomach writhed with fear.

She heard the lock click on her door and watched it swing open to reveal Nott. He looked terrible—like an Inferi. She wondered if he had yet heard the news.

"My door was locked because I didn't want anyone getting in," she clarified. Nott shut the door behind him.

"If you really hadn't wanted anyone getting in, I doubt I could have gotten in," Nott said simply. He hesitated. "I heard. I had to come back."

"I know," she replied, blinking rapidly at the burn of threatening tears.

For a long moment, they were silent, the pressure and weight of Zabini's death taking up all the space in the room.

"Thank you—for last evening. I am ashamed of my conduct."

_You should be_ , she thought rather meanly at first, but found compassion in her heart in spite of it.

"I am concerned about you," she instead confessed, straightening in her seat. "That manor is half burned down, Nott. You can't  _live_  there." She paused. "And anyway, I thought you said you'd moved out."

"I had," said Nott, looking embarrassed, as he stepped closer to the desk, "but I suppose in my drunken state I returned there instinctively."

"But there was a house elf there, Nott."

"Well, my mother still lives there."

Hermione stared at Nott in shock. In all of the years she had known him, she had not once—not ever, she was  _positive_ —heard a thing about Nott even having a mother. "She's unwell," he clarified, apparently reading her silence correctly. "Company unsettles her. My parents are—were, I guess—much older than most people our age, you will recall."

"Well," she finally said rather helplessly, unsure of how to proceed. Luckily or unluckily, at that moment, her door burst open, revealing Alphard.

"We're going. Get your things." He glanced at Nott. "You look like shit," he remarked in amusement. Nott's cheeks flushed unattractively.

"Good to see you too, Black," he snarked. Alphard quirked a brow at him.

"I didn't say it was good to see you," he mused, barely holding back laughter. He turned back to Hermione. "I want to work on the Amundsen case—Potter's team is taking care of the Zabini investigation."

"Yes, I'll be right there," said Hermione, stacking and setting aside her scrolls. She was relieved to have a reason to prolong the interaction with Nott no longer. "Let me just change," she said pointedly.

"I suppose I'll show myself out then," said Nott, looking to Hermione for support. She smiled humorlessly at him, and both men left. She waved her wand, shutting the door again, and slumped in her seat. She felt old.

_Focus. Focus, focus, focus,_ she told herself, willing herself to her feet and beginning to prepare.

* * *

"I just...I just have this hunch that it's someone we know," said Hermione as she followed Alphard along the busy London road. London was in full Christmastime swing, and the frenzied shoppers around them instilled a frantic sense in Hermione as well.

"Of course it's someone we know—if they knew Malfoy and Zabini, they'd know us as well," said Alphard ahead of her.

Hermione hesitated. She'd not told anyone of what she had seen in Nott's study, and she sensed she would regret divulging to Alphard—especially given his strong dislike for Nott. And yet…her gut was telling her she should tell him anyway.

"Zabini was handling Malfoy and Parkinson's pre-nuptial contract," she pointed out, rushing to catch up with Alphard's longer strides. He glanced at her.

"You think that's part of it?"

"Well…" Hermione began slowly. They stopped at a busy intersection. Alphard was studying her shrewdly.

"You know something, and you don't trust me, so why are you even going here?" he asked bluntly. Hermione flushed.

"It's not a matter of trust—"

"—yes it is," insisted Alphard with a callous, almost incredulous laugh. "Oh, Granger, you're bigoted in your own ways as well, just like Potter."

"I hardly think judging someone's character based on their propensity to kill would be called bigotry," she snapped. Alphard merely looked amused.

"Let's step in here for a bit—this is more interesting than Amundsen."

"Black, we're on a mission—gah!"

To her immense displeasure and secret, shameful delight, Alphard had grasped her by the elbow and was leading her into the nearest pub. A divey-looking place without a sign, it smelled of old wood and sweat inside. Alphard directed her to sit in the nearest booth while he acquired pints for them. Hermione requested tea at his retreating back but she knew he'd not honor her request. With a sigh and a feeling of helplessness, she slumped into the booth.

Alphard soon returned, bearing two pints of lager and a steaming cup of tea.

"I'm not drinking alone," he said as he slid into the booth with far more grace than she had done. "At least pretend to drink it; then you can have your tea."

"You listened!" she said delightedly, drawing her earl grey closer to her almost possessively. Alphard rolled his eyes.

"Beer first," he directed. "So, you know something about Zabini's handling of the Malfoy-Parkinson union. It's probably connected to why Zabini was spotted leaving Malfoy Manor after the time of death."

"Very good," said Hermione ungenerously.

"And," he continued, a focus in his eyes that she wasn't used to seeing, "it's the reason Zabini is now dead. There's got to be someone else involved. Who would the next target be?"

"So you thought of that too," she said grimly. Alphard's lips twisted.

"It's sort of my job to think of that," he reminded her dryly, looking strikingly like Sirius once more. Her heart twisted painfully. "And, it's  _your_  job to tell me who else would be involved in those documents and why they would be involved."

"Well, not exactly—it's more my job to try and keep whoever did it out of Azkaban, but I see your point," she said hastily. Alphard sat back, toying with his untouched pint, staring into the distance in thought. "When I was at Nott's house—" she began slowly. Alphard's gaze snapped back to her. 'I...sort of snooped," she admitted guiltily, blushing at the amused glimmer in Alphard's eye, "and…well, he had a copy of the pre-nuptial contract. In his own handwriting."

"Where was Nott —you know, this morning," asked Alphard, looking uncomfortable as he dodged mentioning his duel with Harry. Hermione rolled her eyes.

"He didn't do it, Black. Nott…" she was about to say Nott couldn't, but she realized now that she did not have full confidence on that. "...wouldn't," she finished carefully. At least that, she knew, was true.

"Evidence," Alphard shot back.

Hermione drew in a breath, thinking back on her lifetime of knowing Nott peripherally.

"He had an odd sort of bond with Malfoy, and he respected Zabini too much. You know, they were both in Malfoy's crowd in school, and sort of fed off of his power. They could reap the benefits of consorting with him without ever getting into trouble."

"Power?" asked Alphard, his brows arched dubiously. "Granger, you're talking about bloody boarding school here."

"Yes, well, Hogwarts isn't just any school," she said testily, "and if you'll recall, Malfoy was assigned to murder Dumbledore."

"Interesting," said Alphard, though his tone suggested he found it anything but. "It all comes down to motive, though, doesn't it? Who would have reason to kill Malfoy?—That'll lead us to them. A former Voldemort supporter would never do such a messy job of it—if they still held allegiance to Voldemort after all this time, it would have been the Killing Curse, wouldn't it? Malfoy's death was too visceral, too Muggle."

"You understand an awful lot about You-know-who's supporters," remarked Hermione lightly. Grudgingly she took a sip of her beer. It wasn't bad, actually, though she was grateful he'd gotten the tea as well.

"I come from a family of them, don't I?"

"But you never felt any inclination to support him," Hermione prompted. Their gaze met and once more she thought of the look on his face when he had explained the meaning of his tattoo.  _It means shame_. The beer in her mouth lost its taste as she recalled that moment. Alphard said nothing. "You remarked on my bigotry in a way that made me realize you believe I think you're bigoted," she explained.

"You've got a glass head, Granger," said Alphard with a shrug. "And I'm not an idiot. I know what they say about me."

"Is it true?"

"Which part?" he shot back, quirking a clever brow at her.

"The part where you have disturbing sympathies with Dark wizards and know more dark Hexes than most of them," she replied in a low voice, feeling that same old rushing in her veins that she always got during a trial, when they hit the best part of her evidence, though this was largely an opposing situation. This was not where they hit solid fact—this was where things got murky. Instead of that moment in a trial, where logic and facts formed a corner that she backed perpetrators into, this was like having been on a road paved with facts and suddenly finding herself veering off it, into thick, untamed woods.

"What does it matter?"

"I don't know anything about you," she explained. "You are a complete mystery."

"And you like to know everything about everything," confirmed Alphard.

"More or less."

As seemed to always be the case with Alphard Black, the situation was suddenly teetering off track; it was beyond her control suddenly and she did not know how it had happened. "You were one year below Viktor Krum, weren't you?" she prompted, trying to regain control.

"Correct," he conceded. "You dated him briefly."

"Also correct," she parried.

"Did you write to him, asking about me?" he mocked. Hermione's cheeks heated again.

"The first day you arrived at the Ministry, yes," she admitted. "It was the very first thing I did when I heard about you."

"And what did Krum say?" He looked like he already knew the answer.

"He said that he never consorted with you, that you were part of a gang of students that he avoided at all costs, and that you are someone to be watched," she said honestly. Alphard looked amused.

"Subtle," he smirked. "Guess he didn't like me much."

"Doesn't it bother you, that someone would write that about you?"

"Would Malfoy not have written the same thing about you?"

"That's different. Malfoy hated me for my blood-status and my connection to Harry," she snapped.

"Well, if I had asked Malfoy without knowing the situation, I would have got a similar answer, and," he continued, "if I were  _really_  bloody stupid, I probably would believe it, too."

"You're calling me stupid," she confirmed flatly.

"Good girl," he jeered. Hermione's hands went into fists on their own accord.

"Why must you be so hostile about this? I'm trying to get to know you—"

"—By implying I supported the most evil wizard in recent history and continue to support him. You're right, Granger, I don't know why I'm getting hostile," he exploded, his sarcasm caustic. "That's a perfectly civil means of getting to know me. Yes, treat me like some sort of antihero in a book, harangue me for details of my wrongdoings, ignore everything else about me—it's almost flattering."

"You treat women like dogs. It puts one on the defensive," she bit back.

"Only women who want to be treated like dogs."

He was so infuriating that she considered hurling her drink at him.

They regarded each other, each breathless with their anger. Her sudden dislike for him was immense, billowing, acidic, burning her mouth and heart.

"There it is," she said quietly, "the bigotry comes out at last."

"You would never have rested until you found something you could call bigotry. Now you can relax," he snarked. "You've been prejudiced against me since day one—really, this is what you wanted."

The worst thing—there was a tiny granule of truth in his words. Goosebumps raised along her skin as they continued to stare at each other head on. She was like that, wasn't she? She knew it, deep down. She didn't really know how to interact with others, so she labeled them, put them in boxes, because it was easier that way.

_My tattoo. It means shame._

"I'm sorry," she said. There was a rush of relief in apologizing. "You're right. I am prejudiced in my own way. And," she went on, finally looking away, and toying with her own glass, "I think I was hurt because from the start it seemed you didn't like me."

"That's not the case—even if you are bloody difficult to like sometimes, Granger."

Like a punctured balloon, the tension quite suddenly dissipated, as they each fidgeted. "I'm sorry for giving you that idea," he finally said stiffly.

"Well, let's just move on," she said hastily. "We should be working on the Amundsen case!"

"Or the Malfoy-Zabini murders," suggested Alphard lightly. "You say Nott had a copy of the documents?"

"Like he was doing them separately."

"So Zabini must have advised them against doing something, and they must have gone to Nott, then."

"But would it be Pansy or Malfoy?"

"Malfoy, right? Maybe Parkinson found out and murdered Malfoy over it," mused Alphard. Hermione frowned at him.

"In the Jurator department we say that the simplest solution is usually the right one," she said. "At the very least, it's where one ought to start. And that is not the simplest explanation."

"Then what is? That Malfoy and Parkinson decided to seek Nott's services jointly instead of Zabini's, and Malfoy's murder was a random, unrelated occurrence?"

"Possibly."

"But you don't think that," confirmed Alphard, watching Hermione's eyes carefully.

"No, I don't," she admitted with a sigh. "I just… am concerned about Harry handling this case. He's already at a stressful time in his life, and even though his hunches about Malfoy were always pretty spot-on at the end of the day, this is… different." She watched Alphard take a long swig of his beer, looking thoughtful. "Are you going to tell me yet why you and Harry really dueled?"

"Already did," he said, setting down his beer in a final sort of way. Hermione snorted.

"No, you didn't. You had to ask me and Furness to leave today, Black. Most people consider me to be the brightest witch of our age, and it's for a reason."

Alphard slammed the glass down again, rather harder than necessary.

"Granger, you are truly relentless," he marveled with a scowl.

"There is no way you remarking on Harry's handling of the case would have ever upset him that much.  _I know him,_ " she pressed on. "I know him really bloody well. He's got a temper, but only about things that matter."

"Or maybe he's got very specific areas of insecurity, and that falls into one of them," he parried. "Either way—let's go. We're not solving anything here, and we still have got to actually do what we came to do."

"You're right—but this isn't over," she reminded him as they rose, shrugging into their coats again.

They left the pub and reentered the pre-Christmastime frenzy. Their next stop was a flat in a rather shabby area of London; Hermione could recall her parents always carefully avoiding this neighborhood during her childhood and though she had a wand she still wasn't keen on venturing into it.

"Think we'll find the symbol there?"

"Oh, I don't know. I couldn't find the bloody thing anywhere. It's not a rune, it's not a known symbol; it doesn't appear in other cultures…" Hermione pulled at her hair in frustration.

"None of the Aurors knew anything. I owled a few professors from Durmstrang and none of them knew anything either." Alphard paused, his eyes twinkling. "…But then again, they are all pure evil, so perhaps they're all supporting this secret evil movement and don't want you to know about it."

"Oh, enough already," she blustered, rolling her eyes at him. Their hands brushed as they walked, and she could barely detect his cologne, and the attraction to him was building up again. She despised herself sometimes. It was so  _obvious_  to find Alphard Black attractive;  _everyone_  did. "Were you happy there?"

"Happy? Good question," said Alphard, looking thoughtful as they walked. They had rounded a corner and here were surrounded by a standing of grubby grey buildings. At the center of them was a filthy sandbox and broken steel swingset; a group of adolescent girls were practicing a dance together, and three young men huddled together in dark hoodies were surveying Hermione and Alphard from a corner. "I suppose, overall, yeah," he finally said.

"Is your family still abroad?"

But before Alphard could respond, there was a scream and a cry—a fight had broken out among the girls.

"Leave it," Alphard warned under his breath. "Our objective is Amundsen."

"Did he kill here?"

"No, but he did live here—for quite a while, as a matter of fact," said Alphard, leading her around a corner, away from the bickering girls. "We're looking for a Muggle woman named Tracey." He withdrew a scrap of parchment from the pocket of his leather jacket. "215b." They halted before a tower of flats, grim as a headstone and enormous as a fortress.

"Another old lady?"

"Not quite." Alphard reached and swung open the door to the lobby. He grinned at her. "A lover."

They mounted the endless stairs. It was a shabby building, even worse on the inside, with rubbish strewn along the landings, peeling paint, and odd stains on the walls and stairs. From behind the doors they could hear the faint screeches of arguments or the jumbled jangles of television programmes.

"Here," Alphard said, already at the door, as Hermione wheezed up the final flight of stairs, clutching a stitch in her side. He knocked on the door.

"We're just going to—" she began, cutting off as she panted, finally reaching his side.

"Weren't you just saying that sometimes the simplest solution is the correct one?" Alphard mused. "So yes, we're just going to go in."

The door opened, revealing a small blonde girl of about six. Hermione drew in a sharp breath. Judging by the look on Alphard's face, he'd not expected this either, and he'd also come to the same conclusion she had.

"Hello," greeted the little girl. She appraised Alphard. "You're quite handsome. You look like a prince."

"I get that a lot," parried Alphard lightly. He crouched down slightly. "What's your name?"

"Erica," said the little girl. Alphard looked briefly at Hermione out of the corner of his eye. Hermione nodded almost imperceptibly.

"Nice to meet you, Erica. My name is James, and this is my friend Hulga." He nodded to Hermione as Erica turned to study her. Hermione silently fumed.  _I suppose he's paying me back for Melvin,_ she mused.

"You're pretty, Hulga. But not like a princess. More like a princess who is secretly a knight," Erica pronounced. Hermione pressed her lips together to avoid laughing as she glanced at Alphard. His eyes were twinkling.

"I reckon you're right, Erica," said Alphard. All the blood seemed to be rushing to Hermione's face, now. "Say, is your mum home?"

"No, she's out, but you can wait for her here. She just went to the corner," said Erica, already backing up to allow them entry. Hermione and Alphard glanced at each other again. She was desperately wishing for telepathy now.

The flat was a pigsty; clothes were lying in filthy heaps everywhere, masking the floor and furniture. An algae-covered fishtank sat on the breakfast nook, and the place reeked of skin, old clothes, and marijuana. Hermione resisted the urge to hold her breath. Erica happily plopped onto the sunken sofa in front of the television. A cartoon was on. "You can sit here," she said, grabbing a filthy-looking and moth-bitten toy rabbit. Hermione's heart seemed to be breaking.

"Thank you, Erica," she said courteously, sitting next to her gingerly on the couch.

"Erica, where's your loo?"

The little girl was beaming. How could she not? Alphard was just so bloody adorable. Hermione was overcome with jealousy. She'd never been able to convincingly turn on the charm like that, like it was a switch she could just hit whenever she fancied.

"Just there," she said happily, pointing to a door hanging off the hinges.

"Thanks, love," he said, and disappeared behind the door. Hermione knew he would be poking round the rest of the flat, searching for signs of Amundsen.

"So why are you here? Are you social workers?" asked Erica. Hermione bit her lip.

"Something like that." She paused. "So do you live here with just your mum?"

"Well, my dad comes by sometimes, but mum doesn't know." Erica drew in a breath. "Don't tell her. Mummy doesn't like daddy very much. She threw a plate at him last time." Erica held her rabbit closer. Hermione settled back in the seat, her mind working fast. This had to be Amundsen's daughter—the fact that she was named Erica was almost proof enough to Hermione.

So he'd had an affair here, probably used this Tracey as a means of hiding out, then bolted the minute he realized the Ministry was on his trail again, leaving behind a pregnant Tracey—or else it had been later, and he'd left behind Tracey and a daughter.

"What's your dad like?"

"He's funny." Erica wrinkled her nose as though imagining something silly. "He can do lots of funny stuff, only I can't tell you about it."

_If I really were a social worker and didn't know that Amundsen was a wizard, that would be a whole lot more worrying of a statement for_ very _different reasons,_ she mused, overcome with a creeping sense of horror and a loss of control.

_We're hunting someone's dad,_ she despaired silently. As soon as they found Amundsen, there would be no opportunity for trial—he'd be imprisoned immediately, without opportunity to see his daughter ever again. Hermione cared little for Amundsen—he'd already made his choices, he deserved prison—but what of little Erica?

Alphard appeared again. She could tell by the look on his face that he had not found anything. Before they could say anything more, the door banged open.

She was probably not much older than either of them in reality, but she looked at least fifteen years older. She was skeletal and harrowed, her canary yellow hair hanging in thin clumps round a face that must have once been pretty. She was clutching a beaten-looking and dented tin of biscuits.

"Mummy, this is James and Hulga, they're social workers!" said Erica delightedly. Tracey looked between them as Hermione rose and stepped forward.

"We're sorry for the intrusion, ma'am—we wouldn't have come in, but your daughter invited us," she said smoothly, offering her hand to shake. Tracey made no move to shake Hermione's hand, and only looked between them with great suspicion.

"Get in yer room, toots," snapped Tracey, clutching the biscuit tin closer to her sunken chest. Erica pouted but immediately skipped off to her room and shut the door behind her. "I knows what you are," she said in a low voice, skirting them and moving towards the kitchenette. "And you got no business in my home." With shaking hands she set the tin on the cracked countertop. "Social workers my arse," she muttered.

"We're looking for Eric Amundsen," said Alphard, dropping all pretenses.

"S'not here, is 'e?" Tracey let out a callous laugh. "No, yous can both show yerselves out. I'll not have  _that_  nonsense in  _my_  home."

Hermione's mouth went dry. So Amundsen had broken the statute of secrecy—Tracey knew...But how had she guessed what they were?

"When was the last time you saw Amundsen?" Alphard pressed on. Tracey shook her head and turned away.

"Long time ago. Six years ago."

"So, when Erica was born?" Alphard clarified. He was demonstrating none of the charm now, and was a force to be reckoned with. Hermione longed to prove herself as well.

"Yeah, what about it?"

"Have you ever seen this symbol, Tracey?" Hermione stepped forward and retrieved a copy of the symbol from her trenchcoat pocket. She held it out for Tracey and let the woman study it.

"No, never seen it." Her hands were shaking badly now and Hermione felt her heart breaking for her.

"Tracey, we'd like to talk to you about Eric Amundsen sometime. Could we set up a time to talk? We'd pay you," Hermione said gently. She felt Alphard shooting her looks but he remained silent as Tracey considered.

"…How much?"

"Depending on your cooperation, and on the length of the discussion…" Hermione named an hourly rate and watched with pity and empathy as Tracey's eyes lit up.

"Alrigh', then," she said gruffly. "I'll talk to yeh tomorrow at one. But I'm charging extra. Sherry's got to watch that 'un," she explained, nodding towards Erica's bedroom.

"Thank you. We'll be here then," said Hermione.

They showed themselves out, but not before Erica burst out of her room and bid them farewell, eagerly asking when she would see them next. As Alphard and Hermione left the building, they were silent.

"Hulga? Really?" Hermione finally prompted. Alphard grinned, his hands shoved in his pockets.

"Fair's fair," he said loftily. "That was…smart. With the separate meeting. It gives us time to strategize and makes Tracey feel more powerful, like she's in control. And the incentive was a nice touch."

"You know, I have done my own fair share of dark Wizard-hunting," Hermione retorted, pretending to preen. Alphard laughed.

"Yeah, and it shows."

They paused as she turned to look at him.

"You're being awfully nice to me," she remarked warily. She crossed her arms, cocking her head to the side. Alphard arched his brows at her.

"Just being honest. Would you like me to be meaner?"

"Well, it would feel a bit more … normal," she jested. Alphard grinned.

"Alright, then—those jeans do your arse no favors. Oh, and you've had something stuck in your teeth all morning. Can't tell what it is. Happy now?"

"Not exactly," Hermione grit out, scowling as she hastened to catch up with him again.

* * *

When they returned to the Ministry, Alphard left to supply Furness with an update, leaving Hermione to her own devices. Nott was out again, presumably still feeling sick, and Hermione couldn't bear to be alone in the department. Zabini's empty office felt like a black hole.

She wandered to the Auror department, trying to focus on the Amundsen case and think of how to best get information on Amundsen from Tracey, but it was futile. Her cause was further dashed when she passed by Harry's office and saw the door was closed, but that light was coming in a slim shaft from the space under the door. Without knocking, she went in.

It was messy, as usual. Harry was slumped in his chair, toying with the Golden Snitch that Dumbledore had hidden the Resurrection Stone in. She shut the door behind her gently.

"Harry," she said softly. "What are you doing?"

"Oh, you know, just trying to remember who I am and what I stand for," Harry said in a mockingly casual tone. "Howabout you?"

"Worrying about my best friend." She sat on the edge of his desk, facing him. "Where's Ron?"

Harry shrugged. He still would not look at her. "You were fighting with Black about me, weren't you." It wasn't a question—she'd always been able to read Harry just as well as she was able to read any book, even one in runes.

Harry looked up at her, at long last, and set the Snitch aside. Her stomach dropped.

_No._

It couldn't be. She wouldn't believe it. She was, quite suddenly, transported to a moment in time many years ago—one she had spent a very,  _very_  long time not letting herself recall—during the Horcrux hunt, when she had been at a fork in the road with Harry—a figurative one.

She'd placed her hand on top of his head, feeling the thick, untamable black locks under her fingers, and she'd heard him swallow. Then she'd removed her hand and continued on into the tent. She'd chosen her path— _their path_ —then.  _  
_

How had they come to this same fork when she thought they'd left it so far behind?

"Hermione," he began, his voice breaking in desperation, and he took his feet off the desk and rose to his feet. He was silhouetted by the white December light coming in from the fake windows behind him. "I…"

"Just don't," she interrupted, sliding off the desk and backing away. "Please. Spare me that."

"I love Ginny," he continued gently. "I really, really love her."

"I am aware," she said caustically. "Believe me, I am aware."

She fled the office. Harry burst out of his office, and for one blazing moment, they were standing in the hall, frozen, staring at each other.

"I—I'm taking the rest of today off," she finally said.

"Hermione," Harry started again, reaching out towards her.

"Leave it," she seethed, " _please._ "

She turned on her heel and openly ran off, down the hall. Her eyes were burning and her heart was pounding, and though she was still not entirely sure of even  _what_  had just happened, she knew the blackness closing in around her—it was almost like an old friend now.


	6. Undisclosed Desires

Undisclosed Desires

* * *

Hermione smacked into Nott; she had been rounding the corner on the way back to her office. They stumbled back from each other, clearly both having been lost in their thoughts. She avoided his eyes, ashamed that hers were so wet, as she navigated a strong sense of deja vu—until she realized this  _had_  happened just two days prior.

"Granger," he muttered, massaging his arm where she'd run into him. "I was just looking for you." His face went blotchy. She now realized he was holding a bouquet of flowers: lurid red roses, a dozen of them.

"Oh, is that so," she said in a high voice, straining as her keen mind worked fast towards the possible resolutions of this situation. She wasn't sure she could handle another dramatic moment today. She was drained; she was not sure what one more instant of interpersonal pain would do to her.

"I-it is not—" he looked helplessly at the bouquet, as though it might pipe up and explain for him, "—This is thank you." He shoved it at her, not meeting her eyes.

"Thank you?" she asked dimly. "For—oh." She took the flowers hesitantly. "Sorry, I just can't believe that was only yesterday." Lugging Nott home from the bar seemed ages ago now. That had happened in a world where Zabini was alive, where Harry and Alphard had not dueled, where Harry—she couldn't bear to finish the thought.

"I cannot quite grasp it either," he said stiffly. "So much has happened today. With Zabini gone…well, our department will struggle without Zabini's contribution."

Hermione fought against the urge to sigh at Nott in exasperation.  _Leave it to him to be as weird as possible about Zabini's death_ , she inwardly grumbled.

"Thank you," she said in a pointedly final tone. "These are lovely. I hope you get some rest." She pushed past him, and only felt a twinge of guilt. He'd run into her—literally—at a difficult moment.

She took refuge in her office, the bouquet forgotten on her desk, the petals of the vivid roses wilting. She held her face in her hands and let out a dry, shuddering sob.

This was, possibly, the worst day she had ever had. It was hard to compare it to any day during the Horcrux hunt, or the battle of Hogwarts, precisely because it was so personal, though it had the same sort of finality to it. Things had ended; doors had closed which could not be opened again.

Or, rather, she had held something with potential in her hands—like water—and watched it slip abruptly through her fingers.

Zabini was dead. He was not coming back. And Harry... well, something had ended there, and was not coming back, but she was not sure of what it was. Every time she went back to it, she saw his face, blood dripping down his temple, after the duel with Alphard. His eyes had never blazed like that before.

So the fight had been about her after all. And, because Hermione was logical and perceptive enough to see these situations clearly, she could finally piece together the only explanation of what had passed between Harry and Alphard.

Now, she desperately wished she were not so clever.

She did not want to know.

She half-expected her private moment of pain to be interrupted by Alphard barging in, but it seemed he had no plans of intruding on her life further today. She couldn't tell whether she was relieved or disappointed.

So she went home, to her very lonely flat. She stashed the bouquet in a pitcher by the sink, the flowers still wrapped in their wax paper, took a mild Sleeping Draught, and fell into her bed with her clothes still on.

* * *

"She's never been late before." Nott looked terrible, still, but at the mention of Hermione being missing, the little color he had regained drained from his face. "Never," he clarified, panicked. Alphard rolled his eyes, his impatience rising.

"Look, do you know where her flat is? I'll just go get her," he sighed, checking his watch again. It was nearly eleven in the morning, and they were due to meet Tracey in just two hours' time. Nott looked at him with revulsion, and Alphard, not for the first time within this conversation, began to regret asking Nott anything.

" _Go to her flat?_ " he sputtered, as though Alphard had suggested murdering her.

"Yes. That's where she lives, and, likely, where she will be found. And I need her," he added tersely. Nott arched his brows, and evidently felt he had found the upper hand, for his posture changed; he regained his color as he regarded Alphard with arched brows.

"Ah. I nearly forgot, but now I recall. She's minding you," he said with relish, sitting back in his chair. Something in Alphard snapped, and he turned on his heel.

"If you're going to be such a fucking pain in the arse about it, I'll ask someone else," he bristled over his shoulder as he thundered over to the desk of Lavender Brown, the current receptionist of the department.

"Well, look who's  _finally_ come to see me," she greeted with a giggle, twirling her hair. Alphard slowed his stride and winked at her, then placed his palms on her desk so he was leaning towards her.

"Need a favor, love," he replied in a low voice. Lavender flushed at the insinuating tone in his voice.

"Well, that's inappropriate, Mr Black," she tittered, twirling her hair yet more vigorously. "But I suppose I'll let it slide just this once."

"Good sport, Miss Brown," he flirted. "Can you tell me where Jurator Granger lives? She's missing and I need her."

"O-oh. Hermione?" She looked like she'd been hit on the head. "Um, sure, I can tell you. I've been there before. …I could take you there, if you wanted…"

"Ah, I love a woman devoted to her job, but I wouldn't want to get you in trouble, love," he said sweetly.  _Why won't anyone just_ fucking give _me Granger's address?!_

"Well, in that case," she sighed, "it's in Diagon Alley, above that little bookshop. Not Flourish and Blott. The smaller, dodgier one," she clarified.

"Excellent. You're the best, Miss Brown," he said, straightening again and sweeping out of the department. For good measure, as he passed Nott's office, he casually sent a Bat Bogey Hex his way as a thank-you for all his help.

* * *

She awoke to the sound of glass shattering.

"Granger?"

Pain.  _So much pain._  And a fog of grogginess… Hermione pulled the cover back over her head, retreating back into the warmth of her duvet, but the blissful ignorance of sleep was slipping away…her eyelids were less weighted down; it was all coming back…  _That's right…I took a sleeping potion…_

She was suddenly aware of how uncomfortable she was. Her Jurator robes were hopelessly twisted round her body; one high heel had fallen off her foot; the other was only holding onto her toes and the pointed heel, jagged from traipsing over cobblestone in them, was digging into her calf.

"Granger," prompted the impatient voice, closer now. The covers were ripped from her, as she peered up through hanks of bushy, wild hair, to see Alphard Black, crisp in black jeans and a button up, looking down at her in amusement. "Well, good thing you were fully dressed for bed," he remarked, observing her mussed clothes. "You might've been taking the idea of constant vigilance a tad too seriously, I reckon," he added as an afterthought. "Oh, and, uh, hope you didn't like that glass otter you had on the coffee table. I sort of Apparated on it."

"Go away," she grumbled, grappling blindly for her covers.

"You look like hell," he continued conversationally, as he pulled the covers from her. "I'll turn on your shower; you'd better get in. We're going to be terribly late for Tracey."

"Oh god," she groaned, curling up and hiding under her pillow.

"Yeah, my thoughts too. Of all the days to drop the ball, Granger," he was saying, as he flung open her curtains. She heard her shower being turned on, then heard him rummaging around her kitchen.

Hermione shrugged out of her Jurator robes and pulled on her dressing gown over her chemise, not caring at the moment that she looked ridiculous and was improperly dressed in front of a coworker, stumbling out into the kitchen area. Alphard was cooking eggs. "Shower," he ordered, without looking back at her.

"Why are you here, Black?"

"Because you're bloody late and I can't go interview Tracey without you." He was beginning to sound irritated. "Seriously, Granger, you're supposed to be the responsible one." He paused, finally looking back at her, a gleam in his dark eyes that she did not like one bit. "So who're the flowers from?"

The lurid red roses from Nott were still stashed in the pitcher by the sink. Hermione groaned as she recalled the awkwardness.

"Nott," she ground out, before turning back to take her shower.

She didn't want to think about yesterday—about any of it—so instead she focused on the tasks at hand.  _Wash hair. Condition hair. Wash body. Rinse out conditioner._  When she got out of the shower, the flat was filled with the smell of eggs and toast and coffee. She picked out Muggle clothes, as they would likely be heading straight to the interview with Tracey, and then, hair still sopping wet, ventured back into the kitchen. Alphard turned round, holding the plate piled high with eggs and kippers just out of her reach.

"I'll give you breakfast if you explain why you've got flowers from Nott," he warned, edging back from her.

"Oh,  _really_. It's as though I got flowers from You-know-who," she grumbled, sitting heavily at her kitchen table. "He just gave me flowers to apologize for—well—becoming unreasonably inebriated," she said in a high voice, feeling her cheeks grow hot. "Can I have my breakfast now?"

"You're welcome," chided Alphard as he slid the plate across the table to her. "Eat fast. We'll be late."

"…Thank you, Alphard," she sing-songed, rolling her eyes, before inhaling the eggs with indecent gusto. She hadn't realized how hungry she had been, but now that she thought on it, she hadn't actually eaten since breakfast yesterday.

Alphard pulled out a chair and sat on it backwards, regarding her.

"So, you look terrible," he remarked. "Cut up about Zabini?"

Hermione pretended to be too busy chewing to reply. Truthfully, the moment with Harry—whatever it had been—had been her tipping point. Unfortunately, Alphard was perceptive as always, and cocked his head to the side. "…Or something else is upsetting you?" His voice became surprisingly gentle, and Hermione, to her own disgust, felt her eyes burning at the implied kindness.

"It's nothing," she said thickly, after she'd swallowed her food. "Let's just focus on Tracey."

"Pfft. What's there to focus on? We get her to spill the beans about Amundsen, give her the money, then leave."

"And you have no concerns that Amundsen's going to attack her?" Hermione asked dryly. Alphard sniggered.

"Come on, Granger—I'm impulsive…and possibly a Dark Wizard…but I'm not a total idiot. We've got a team on them already." He paused. "Tracey and Erica are both safe."

"Fine," she conceded. She finished her food. "You're a good cook."

"Don't sound so surprised, Granger," he shot back, smirking. "I did have to learn to cook for myself when I left school."

"No girlfriend to cook for you?" she teased, surprising herself with the lightheartedness of her tone. Alphard, to her continuing surprise, gave a genuine smile.

"Nah—we're more alike than you might want to think, Granger," he said cryptically, before pushing away from the table and standing up. Almost reflexively he righted the chair.  _Interesting. Knows how to cook and tidies up after himself,_ she observed, glancing round the kitchen. He'd left no mess behind—in fact, it was neater than it had been in weeks.

It wasn't the sort of behavior she would have expected from a Pureblood, to say the least.

"You mean you're not interested in women, either?" she countered. Alphard sniggered.

"Or maybe we're both interested in women. I'd say you'd attract a fair bit of attention at any of the local gay bars, Granger, in trousers like that," he parried, then hastily ducked a Hex she sent his way.

"Oh, shut it. We'd better get going." She rose up out of her chair and went to collect her things. As she turned, she saw him again tidying up after her mechanically—like he hardly noticed what he was doing.

She stood in her bedroom for a moment, feeling disoriented. She scrunched her eyes shut, thinking once more of yesterday, with Harry.

_Push it down. Don't think about it._

"Granger," came Alphard's warning call from the kitchen. Hermione slumped a little, under the weight of her own hopelessness. How many times had she been forced to push things down in her life, to ignore her own inner troubles, for the sake of others?

Maybe she had hit her breaking point.

Alphard poked his head into the room. "Seriously, Granger, I'm losing patience."

He was back to Unfriendly Alphard—the Alphard she'd been dealing with for the last year; the Alphard who made her feel inadequate and brought all of her insecurities—the ones she had thought she'd mostly grown out of—to the fore.

"I'm sorry. I don't know what's gotten into me," she muttered, grabbing her coat and keys. Alphard watched her for a moment.

"Life's hard sometimes," he said unsympathetically. "And now, we actually are late. Let's move it."

They left her flat in silence. The warmth he had shown over breakfast was gone now, and as a result, Hermione felt herself slipping back into that state of despair that had hit her so hard yesterday, of feeling like she couldn't actually continue on. She was done pretending.

But she didn't have time for this breakdown, not now. As they Apparated to the flat in Hackney, Hermione mentally attempted to claw back to focus. She traipsed after Alphard, who was striding ahead, irritation evident in every line of his lean body.

Outside of Tracey's building, he stopped abruptly, and turned back to her, gripping her upper arms.

"Let go," she ordered, attempting to wrestle out of his grip, but he was stronger, and held fast.

"I'm not really sure why you're choosing now to have some sort of crisis," he began in a low voice, "but now is really not the time. I need you to be on your feet, Granger." He bit his lip. "This part—I know I can't do this part without you."

He said it quickly, and that was when it hit her: this was a confession. This was a sacrifice, for Alphard, to surrender this bit of pride, this bit of independence. It felt like a hook had lodged itself in her heart and was pulling her closer. It was painful, uncomfortable, and yet entirely riveting. She felt like she'd been doused with ice water.

"You need me," she clarified.

"Yes," he grit, "I very much do, and I won't say it again. So get your shit together."

She swallowed.

"This is what happened: yesterday, I had this moment with Harry..." She couldn't continue. She looked away. She felt Alphard sigh, his breath fanning over her collarbone, exposed by her open coat and jumper. There was a lump in her throat. "It's all—" she didn't know what to say, she didn't know  _what_  it all was. "And Zabini's gone, and Harry and Ginny are marrying and I'm..."

"Alone. Yes. You are not marrying Potter. You already knew that."

"Yes, but," she pressed on desperately, "I just sort of always..." She stiffened. "I can't believe we're having this conversation. I hardly know you," she muttered, feeling her face grow hot. Alphard released her arms and she massaged where he'd been gripping her.

Their eyes met.

"I need you now," Alphard began deliberately, their gazes locked, "and you need to figure out how you're going to focus on what is actually important, which is that if we don't get information from Tracey, we are jeopardizing that little girl, as well as countless other Muggles."

"I'm trying," she hissed. "This is not the kind of issue I've ever had before."

"Well, you're not going to solve this crisis in the next thirty minutes, but you could find out something really important about Amundsen in the next thirty minutes." He drew in a deep breath. "Prioritizing what's actually important, based on reality and not on my emotions, has always been a weakness of mine. So I know how it feels. But I promise you're better at it than I am. You can do this."

There it was again: that little hook lodged in her heart, pulling her forward. She looked down at her shoes.

"Thanks," she said thickly. She closed her eyes for a moment, drew in a deep breath, and looked up at Alphard once more. He was regarding her with impatience.  _He's treating me like this_ because _he respects me,_ she realized.  _He trusts me to be capable of handling myself so he's disappointed that I'm_ not _handling myself right now._

It was a revelation—all along, Alphard had respected her, held her to a higher standard than he did everyone else. It was like invisible hands were pulling her up, making her stand taller. "Let's do this," she said firmly. He arched his brows.

"That's more like it," he approved. "Come on." He held the door open for her and winked as she scowled before stamping on inside.

Upstairs at the flat, Erica had already left, for which Hermione was grateful. She had a feeling that the little girl was lonely, and she didn't want her getting her hopes up with more people in her life. Tracey was wearing a cheap white parka with ratty fake fur trim on the hood, and cheap gold zippers over it with fake jewel zipper pulls. She stood with a certain pride in it.

"I almost thought you wasn't coming," she fake-sulked as she opened the door to them. Alphard grinned.

"Blame Hulga," he said pleasantly, jabbing Hermione. "Overslept, didn't she?"

But Tracey was preoccupied; she kept looking round, even after she'd locked the door to her flat.

"You got your lot hanging round," she said in a low voice.

"Erica's safe, Tracey," Hermione said gently. "Safer here, with her babysitter. We promise."

"C'mon, let's get lunch. I'm starving," Alphard interrupted them loudly. Still, as they walked back outside, Hermione was quiet as Alphard chatted with Tracey, trying to draw her out of her shell.

How had Tracey known that they had Auror protection? Had she seen them? Hermione hadn't even been able to detect them; so how had Tracey known? Had it just been a lucky guess?

…Or was Tracey not a Muggle?

She was desperately wishing for telepathy now; she longed for a way to communicate with Alphard about her suspicions, but he was up ahead with Tracey, who was now talking animatedly.

"…And Erica were screamin'," she was saying in between hacking fits of laughter, "and then Daisy—"

"—No! She didn't!" Alphard gasped, acting like he was on the edge of his seat.

"She did! She let the cat out!" Tracey howled. Hermione grinned at Alphard, though he couldn't see it. He laughed with Tracey; a real, genuine laugh, throwing his head back.

"Well, where should we get lunch?" Hermione asked timidly, speeding up to walk in between them.

"The Dolphin," said Tracey, in the proud and reverent tone that one might say, Buckingham Palace.

They reached the Dolphin, which was cozy inside, with a coffered ceiling and paneled walls. It didn't feel like the rest of Hackney, for which Hermione was rather grateful. Tracey and Hermione secured a spot in the back while Alphard went to get them drinks. It was cozy, and not too busy. It was a relief to be inside, away from the stinging flurries.

"So, thank you for meeting us today, Tracey," Hermione said uncomfortably as they waited for Alphard to come back. She was wishing for Alphard's natural charm and ease now. She'd never had it, and probably never would.

"Weren't nothing," Tracey mumbled, avoiding Hermione's eyes. Alphard returned at last, to her relief, with two pints and a mug of tea. He winked at her, so that Tracey wouldn't see, and Hermione felt her cheeks flush.

"You got the kind I like," admired Tracey as she took her beer. Alphard slid in next to Tracey.

"Well, it's the same as mine," he said innocently. Hermione bit her lip.  _So he's buttering her up. It's almost like he's the good cop, I'm the bad cop._ She paused, wrinkling her nose.  _Or, maybe that's actually how it_ is.

Alphard glanced at Hermione; she knew it was meaningful but she wasn't sure what he wanted from her. "Hulga doesn't drink anymore," he clarified for Tracey, a sober tone in his voice, "so don't rub it in too much, will you?"

"Don't drink no more?" Tracey asked in disgust. Hermione kicked Alphard under the table. Hard.

"I developed a bit of a problem a few years back," she said stiffly, following where Alphard had been going, "and, ehm, I got the help I needed."

"Can't have a  _drop_ ," Alphard said quickly, in a low voice. Tracey's eyes were wide. "Or she'll go  _absolutely mental._ "

" _James,_ " Hermione interrupted, "this is really not appropriate."

"No, it's alrigh', Hulga. Didn't reckon you—well, I thought you was a posh bitch, didn't I," she laughed heartily. "Truth be told, I like you better now I know that."

_Ah._ Hermione scowled at Alphard, even though she had to grudgingly admire his tactics. Tracey loosened up visibly, and was now asking Hermione questions, engaging her in the conversation.  _So now I'm a recovering alcoholic named Hulga. Thanks,_ she thought sarcastically, once again wishing for telepathy.

Their waitress came by and took their orders—predictably, Tracey ordered significantly more than Hermione guessed that the tiny woman could possibly eat—and then it seemed Alphard was planning on shifting into business mode.

"So, how old is Erica, Trace?" The use of the nickname was a nice touch, Hermione observed with reluctant admiration.

"Six, already told yeh," she grumbled.

"You know we have to talk about this, Tracey," said Hermione, leaning forward. "We just need information, and you're the only person who can help us. You'd be saving countless lives—possibly including your own," she added grimly. Tracey regarded her heavily.

"Eric wouldn' hurt his daughter," she said after a moment's deliberation.

"Does Erica have magic like you do?" Hermione pressed on; in her periphery she saw Alphard's brows shoot up.

"Bit," she mumbled into her pint.

"But you never went to school for it," she clarified. Tracey shook her head mutely.

"That's a shame," remarked Alphard gently. "You seem like you'd've been a good dueler."

"Not too good with it," Tracey muttered, "Erica's got more, like Eric."

"A lot more?"

"…Yeah. A lot," Tracey confessed. "Thought I could manage it, but…"

"She knows she's different?" Hermione pressed on. Tracey nodded; there was something helpless, something lost, in her eyes. "Oh, Tracey, that's…" Hermione trailed off. She thought of her parents, in a way she never had fully appreciated before: what must it have been like, to be Muggle—or at least raised that way—and try to raise a child who was becoming increasingly odd, in ways that books and experts and doctors could not even begin to explain?

_I never even asked my parents, never wondered…_ she reflected, as she often did, with increasing helplessness, of the vast chasm between her and her parents.

"Been hard," said Tracey hollowly. "Would've been harder with him, wouldn't it, but sometimes still find myself wantin' to talk to him. Jus' for some help, like."

"Did your parents know what you were?" Hermione asked gently. Alphard had retreated; he sat back, observing them, almost looking lost in his own thoughts. Hermione nudged him under the table.

"Nah, I was in the foster system," shrugged Tracey. "Kept it to myself. Then I met him—"

"—he recognized what you were," Hermione finished for her, feeling breathless as the story of Eric and Tracey came together before her eyes. Tracey opened her mouth to reply, but the waitress came with their food. Hermione was still full from Alphard's breakfast, and the egg salad sandwich she had ordered seemed dull and limp in comparison to the food he had cooked.

"Some blokes was messin' with me…he was just watchin', saw them all break out in bad hives all the sudden." She shook her head at the memory. "Should've known then, but I was so young. Didn't know how sick that was, to only pay attention after seeing that."

"That is sick," Hermione grimaced. "But at the time you must have been so relieved to meet someone who knew what was…going on with you. I can't blame you for not caring about how selfish that was of him."

"Everything changed," Tracey recalled.

A heaviness settled over them all. Alphard had not said a word in several minutes' time, and looked only partially present. Now, though, his eyes sharpened.

"Did you know much about Eric?" he prompted. "Did he let you in on what he did, what his life was really like?"

"Not really. Didn't question it at the time 'cause I didn't have a home either. Thought it was normal. Never really bothered myself too much with why he didn't seem to have no friends, why he didn't seem to have a home, why he was always moving all over the damn place…" She sighed.

"We all make mistakes," said Hermione gently, reaching across the table. She briefly covered Tracey's smaller, bonier hand with her own. "Especially when we fall in love with someone." Alphard's gaze on her now was heavier than ever before. Goosebumps prickled her skin. She felt naked, for a moment.  _He's seen more of me than anyone else ever has,_ she thought. It was a funny realization. He had seen, with ease, the deepest secrets of her heart, even the ones she'd not been let in on.

How did he do it? How did he see others so well?

"Yeah," said Tracey softly. "Well, I got up the duff with Erica, then it all started comin' out. The Ministry was looking for him, and then Voldemort was killed, and then I learned Voldemort was  _bad_ , when all along…" she shuddered. "He lied. Told me Voldemort was a hero. Never knew where to get a paper so I didn't see anything saying otherwise, did I? But I learned."

"So then what happened?"

"I asked him about it. Wanted the truth. Showed him the paper I got."

"The  _Prophet?_ "

"Yeah, that one, sayin' he was dead, listin' off his crimes, like. He flew into a proper rage and…" she paused, looking off. "Then he was gone, but he said he'd come back. For the baby."

"Oh god," Hermione sighed, covering her mouth. "You must have been so terrified."

"Ran. I'm brave but I ain't stupid."

"Running was the only choice you had! You couldn't have overpowered him."

"No." Tracey paused, and a shy grin twisted her lips. "But Erica could."

Alphard and Hermione glanced at each other. "The day I had her, was still in hospital, he came for her. Tried to grab her outta my arms, and she sort of—well, it was like she shocked him. Might've been some of my magic too," she said proudly.

"For all we know, it probably was," Hermione pondered, thinking back on all the books she had read on this subject. "The magical bond between mother and child is still very strong, even after birth, and a woman's magic is  _quite_  strong after labor. It's protective instincts," Hermione explained.

"Well, he ran, didn't he? Couldn't just mess with his own kid," said Tracey proudly. "I told him to leave, never come back."

"And you've not seen him since?" Hermione whispered. Tracey shook her head.

"A few times, but he always ran away. But I know he'll come back. Been trying to practice," she confessed in a small voice. "For when he does. But I know him," she said, her voice hardening, "and he won't come back til she's older, when he can convince her, use magic against me, like to bargain."

"He can make it look like he really cares, like he wants to help her magic get stronger. Just like he did with you," Hermione confirmed. Tracey nodded, her eyes flinty.

"Tracey, one of our Aurors can easily train you on basic dueling techniques. It won't guarantee anything, but that's the kind of magic that's just too hard to learn on your own," Hermione said gently. "Take it from me—I've managed to teach myself incredible amounts of magic, but I've never mastered dueling. You can't learn it from books or from practicing by yourself. Al—James here," she corrected hastily, "is the best dueler I know. He could show you a few tips, actually."

Tracey looked almost surprised that Alphard was still there. He looked hardened and cold.

"We can teach you, Tracey, but I'm not even sure I would win against Amundsen," he warned. Hermione raised her brows. "He is not to be underestimated. He's killed an incredible number of people, Muggles especially—more than many of the official Death Eaters."

"I want Erica to be trained," Tracey clarified. "She's like him—really special, really strong magic. She knows she's different."

"Have you explained things?"

"Nah, not yet."

For hours more, they talked, though they mostly went round in circles. Something was niggling at Hermione's mind, and she only remembered after they had dropped Tracey off at her flat and left. They were walking along the city streets, through Hackney and slowly back towards Islington, both in a daze.

"Yesterday, Erica said that Amundsen came by often, at times when Tracey didn't know."

"Yeah, mentioned that to the Aurors," replied Alphard vaguely. "They're on the lookout for that, but he won't make an appearance, not unless he's ready for a fight."

They fell silent again, walking along, watching as the streets morphed into gentrified rows of shops. Shoppers bustled in and out, arms laden with shopping bags.

"You went awfully quiet," Hermione remarked. "What happened?"

"Leaving it to you. You're the one who's got the experience in interviewing, not me," said Alphard innocently. Hermione rolled her eyes.

"No, something upset you." They stopped and she turned to face him. "What was it?"

Alphard let out a sigh, turning away from her.

"Listen, Granger, I'm just tired, that's all."

"…Alright," she said, unconvinced, making it clear she was letting it drop for now. "So, back to the Ministry?"

"Yeah, we've got to try and sift through all this, and see what we've learned," said Alphard, shaking his head. "She didn't really give us anything useful, though. We're no closer to locating him unless we choose to just watch the kid and wait. But he'll know we're watching, and in the meantime, he could hurt more people."

"The Ministry's got no idea of his whereabouts?" Hermione confirmed doubtfully.

"None," sighed Alphard. "I can't believe your hunch about Tracey, though," he added. "That was brilliant. I just reckoned Amundsen broke the Statute of Secrecy."

"That's what I assumed at first, too, but then today when we went to meet her, she seemed to know there were Aurors. I hadn't actually been able to detect them, so…" she shrugged. Alphard was grinning.

"Atta girl," he said approvingly. "See what you can do when you're not having an internal crisis?"

"It's not like it wasn't legitimate," Hermione snapped. "You know, I've never had a chance to just be sad about something."

"You shouldn't," countered Alphard. "Waste of time."

"Well, this one I think was sort of  _because_  I've never had a moment to really stop and think, reflect, you know." They paused by a little square where a large Christmas tree was being decorated. They paused to admire it. "I realized how much I've been pushing down yesterday."

"So you finally realized your feelings for Potter, just in time for their wedding," said Alphard with a shrug. "Did you try and get him to not marry the Weasley girl?"

"Of course not," she sputtered. "I would never do that. Harry and Ginny belong together."

"But deep down you feel like you had him first?"

"No! I mean, I don't know," she said desperately. They watched a man bearing a large box of ornaments climbing up a teetering ladder, which suddenly became quite stable. "Speaking of breaking the Statute of Secrecy," Hermione added shrewdly, sliding her gaze to Alphard beside her.

"All in a day's work, milady," Alphard jested. Hermione snorted, then sobered again.

"Harry and I had all these times where we almost were a thing. During the Horcrux hunt, I mean," she explained, their eyes still fixed on the Christmas tree. "But…somehow it was always out of reach. And anyone since then that I've dated somehow feels like I'm settling, like I chose to let the real thing go. I just…I gave up everything for him. I wouldn't have done it for Ron, or anyone else. At the time I told myself it was for a cause, and it really was, in part. But I stayed for Harry alone."

"Well, you let him go, and now he's gone," said Alphard simply. "But I don't think he ever really let you go either."

"That's why you dueled him?"

They looked at each other, still facing the tree. Alphard sighed.

"You always need all of the answers, all the time, even when they're not good for you," he said, shaking his head. "That's your problem, Granger."

"It is," she agreed heavily. The man reached the top of the ladder and popped on the gold star at the top. Somehow it felt like a letdown. "I think the truth is that I simply cannot stand Christmastime," she finally admitted. Alphard laughed.

"Me, too," he agreed as they turned away from the tree and resumed walking again.

* * *

After going round in circles back at Granger's office, they finally called it a day. Alphard had been reluctant to do so; they were no closer to finding Amundsen now than they had been yesterday.

But he couldn't dwell on it tonight—he was seeing Daphne Greengrass, after all. It was a date. Alphard returned to his flat to try and clean himself up. He was due to meet her in a small pub in Knockturn Alley that she liked, at eight o'clock. Before leaving, he took a cursory look round his flat, and with a quick wave of his wand, tidied it up a bit.  _You never know,_ he thought, cheered by the possibility of bringing a girl home tonight.

He Apparated to the Leaky Cauldron, then went on to Knockturn Alley. He realized now that he was still wearing Muggle clothes from his venture to Hackney today, and wondered if that would bother Daphne. He'd only ever seen her in Wizard attire.

She was waiting outside the pub, in a daringly-cut set of emerald robes. It was still snowing, so she was probably cold.

"Alright, Daph," he greeted slyly, sidling up to her. She looked up at him as though she'd only just noticed him, but her eyes lingered on his attire. "Coming from work, sorry—excuse the Muggle garb," he added, leaning in to kiss her. She pulled back, surveying him.

"You're late." She was clearly not actually upset about this, but was enjoying making a fuss of it. She folded her arms, the action accentuating the cleavage on display. He made a show of pulling his gaze from her chest, and shot her a grin.

"Sorry. Can I buy you a drink for forgiveness?"

" _Fine,"_  she sighed boredly. She allowed him to hold the door open for her, and they ventured inside.

* * *

Hermione felt his presence before she sensed any sign of him: somehow she knew Harry was on the other side of her office door.

It was late. She'd stayed on, bothered like Alphard was that they'd come no closer to finding Amundsen. She sat up, feeling her heart give a great shuddering, like an engine firing.

There was a soft knock, then the door opened.

"You're here late," Hermione greeted softly. The silence was ringing in her ears. Harry was in jeans and a black jumper—probably getting ready to meet Ginny.

"I wanted to talk, then I didn't, and then I reckoned I had to," he confessed with a shy smile. "Can I come in?"

"O-of course," she stammered, feeling her eyes burn. She blinked rapidly, then conjured a chair, though she was sure she had another one in her office somewhere, buried under the heaps of parchment everywhere. Harry shut the door gently.

He was regarding her carefully, sitting down gingerly.

"Agh, this is wrong," he muttered, then rose and sat on the edge of her desk, facing her, but next to her. He looked down at his hands. "Hermione, what happened yesterday… look, Black and I got into a bad row." He bit his lip, avoiding her eyes. "About you."

"I gathered," she said in a quavering tone, toying with her quill to give her shaking hands something to do.

"He said I was holding onto you, that I was being unfaithful to Gin and being a bad friend to you. And…it hurt because he was right," he admitted ruefully. "All this time I just… I dunno, Hermione, you've always been there, even during the Horcrux hunt, and I think…"

"We could have been something." Her voice felt so tiny, so small. Harry nodded vigorously; she got the impression he couldn't speak.

They were silent for a long moment.

"You—" he began, his voice thick, "—we could have just run away."

"I know. I thought about it all the time," she said sadly. Her eyes were wet; she was letting the tears flow freely. "We could have abandoned the Horcruxes, and everyone."

"It was so tempting."

"It was."

The future they had once projected was bursting apart—or rather it had, and they were only just realizing that they'd never heard a bang signaling the bomb had gone off.

So this was 'getting older.' Doors shut, locking forever, visible but useless and painful reminders of an ever-shrinking future. She'd already accepted that life was always a little bit unsatisfying; reality was always just a tiny bit of a letdown, even when you got what you wanted. What she hadn't known was that the future got smaller and smaller, choices narrowed as you made them, that being on the cusp of something was so much better than having fallen onto the other side. They had arrived at the future, and it was supposed to have been better than  _this_.

"I thought about it so much. I think we just made the choice we did because of our beliefs. We were fighting for something—being together just represented throwing away who we were." Harry's voice, as familiar to her as her own, was so soft, so sad.

"Being together would have meant we'd given up," she clarified.

He laughed.

"I can't believe we're actually having this conversation," he sighed, shaking his head. "It just feels like an ending. Even though it's not actually the end of anything at all."

But it  _was_  an ending, for her. It felt like the end of a secret hope, powerful but tiny; a burning point in her heart that she had carried with her for all of these years. She'd been waiting for something that had already passed, was already over.

She'd done everything right: she had given all of herself to Harry. She'd chosen him over family, over education, and very clearly over Ron—all of the things she'd once thought she'd valued above all. She had sacrificed everything for him… and now Ginny was marrying him. Ginny, who could have gotten anyone; Ginny, whose life sometimes seemed unbearably, repulsively perfect to Hermione; Ginny, who had sacrificed nothing and won everything.

"I think you should go," she said in a shaking voice. "It's okay—we're okay—but I need time alone."

Harry shifted off the desk and got to his feet. Hermione fixed her gaze resolutely at the wall, unable to look at him. And then—déjà vu again—his hand brushed, ever so softly, over the top of her head; he held it there, then wordlessly left.

* * *

It'd gone well; Alphard found himself back at Daphne's flat, which she shared with her sister, Astoria, who was still out—probably with Adrian. She led him inside, and with a flick of her wand, locked the door and set all the candles in the flat aglow. She backed him across the room and onto the low loveseat; the shifting shadows from the candles emphasized her curves hypnotically.

She was so confident that it was jarring. Most women were so shy, so insecure, about their bodies. He loved Daphne's confidence but he wasn't used to it yet. He watched with bated breath as she cast aside her robes, revealing the intricate black lingerie beneath. He was dizzy from firewhiskey and desire.

Daphne reached him, still in her high heels and lingerie, and slid onto his lap and covered his mouth with hers. A funny thought struck him—that Granger could use some of Daphne's confidence. At best she was entirely unaware of her own body, as evidenced by this morning, when she had stumbled out of her room in a very thin dressing gown, apparently unaware of how appealingly it twisted across her body.

It had been such an awkward moment, yet she'd missed it entirely. He hadn't been able to avoid staring; it had happened automatically, before he had even realized. Then he'd caught himself staring at her and had had to fight the urge to groan in embarrassment. Staring at Granger was like staring at a teacher: off-limits and weird at best.

Daphne seemed to sense that his mind was wandering; she pressed him back against the cushion and grasped his jumper by the collar.

"I hate Muggle clothes," she drawled, before ripping it cleanly off him. She raked her nails over his chest. "So you do have a tattoo. I thought Pucey was lying," she murmured, as he leaned forward to continue kissing her. She pulled her nails—just a shade too hard, but that was why it was exciting—over the inked skin of his shoulder blades. "What does it mean?"

"Courage," he said, digging his fingers into the black lace and pulling until it ripped.

Hours later he lay tangled in Daphne's bedsheets, listening to her even breathing as she slept. He heard the door unlock, and anticipated hearing Astoria and Adrian's voices, but it sounded like it was just one person. He held still, holding his breath, until he decided that it was definitely just Astoria.

After sounds ceased and he guessed she had gone to bed, Alphard got up and pulled on his pants and trousers, so he could get something to drink. The effects of the alcohol, coupled with several hours' worth of sated lust, had left him feeling thirsty and tired.

Astoria, as Daphne often complained, was messy, and he could see the evidence now: she'd flung her cloak and purse over the loveseat—he winced thinking of how little Astoria would appreciate knowing what had happened on the loveseat she'd left her things just hours before. Reflexively he went to the loveseat and picked up the cloak and purse to hang them up, when something small fluttered to the ground.

Light from the street outside was streaming in through the window; he could see that a small, cornflower blue silk handkerchief had fallen. He hung up Astoria's things and went to pick it up; something about it was jarring his memory, though he didn't know why it felt like he was now seeing something he'd missed. He went to the window and held up the handkerchief, the better to see.

There were initials embroidered into a corner of the cornflower blue silk:  _BZ._

* * *

She'd worked herself to exhaustion on a Friday night and had, not for the first time, fallen asleep at her desk. Hermione jolted awake and saw on the sterling silver clock on her desk that it was nearly four in the morning.

She gave up trying to work and decided she'd just go home, take another sleeping potion, and hopefully sleep through the entire weekend. With a groan, she left her office and, once outside the Ministry, Apparated back to her flat.

"OOF!"

In the darkness of her hall, she was a tangle of limbs with someone who smelled like firewhiskey, a strong, clove-like perfume that she'd never smelled before, and a distinctly familiar fresh, citrus cologne.

"Black?" she asked numbly, fumbling in the darkness for her wand.  _Lumos._

Alphard was massaging his leg and scowling at her. He was wearing his trousers and jumper from earlier that day, though it looked like the jumper had been torn and then poorly repaired, and the trousers were beyond wrinkled. In the dim light, she could see a series of small bruises disappearing along his neck and into his collar. "I think you're confused," she deadpanned, rising to her feet. Alphard groaned.

"No, Granger, I need to talk to you," he insisted, wincing as he got to his feet. "What are you doing here, though?"

"I live here," she said flatly, unlocking the door.

"No, I mean I just got here—hadn't even knocked yet."

"I'm just getting home now. And..sorry, but...you came to my flat at four in the morning because you wanted to talk," she clarified as she allowed him into her flat. He wordlessly shoved something small, blue, and silky at her as she flicked on the lights. In the bright lighting it was painfully obvious that Alphard had been shagged  _wildly._

"This was at the Greengrass sisters' flat," he declared. Hermione looked from him to the handkerchief then back to him again, numb with shock.

"You've lost your mind. You're still drunk," she muttered, casting it aside. Then she froze. "Wait, I've seen that before," she said, turning back to Alphard. He'd picked it up again. "That's the same color as the robes Zabini wears—wore," she corrected, snatching it from him and examining it.

"Brilliant," Alphard marveled. "You got it right away."

"He must have lent it to one of them. I don't see why you had to come to my flat at an hour like this for  _this_ ," she said, handing it back to him. Alphard arched his brows.

"You don't think this is significant?" he followed her like a puppy through her flat. "Astoria came home only a half hour ago and left her things on the couch. I walked by because I needed a glass of water and saw she'd left her things in a pile on the couch, so I went to hang them up. It fell out. She'd been carrying it with her."

Hermione paused in the middle of rifling through her cupboards for the rest of her sleeping potion.

"He just died, Alphard. She might've seen him earlier this week."

"Yes. In extremely odd circumstances. Why would Astoria Greengrass have his handkerchief?"

"I don't really know, but I don't think it's any of my—or your—concern," she snapped, slamming the cabinet shut. "Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to take a sleeping potion and, if not sleep until spring, then at the very least, sleep until Monday. Good night," she said pointedly. Alphard looked in disgust at the sleeping potion in her hands.

"Good night," he said coolly, before storming out of her flat.

Hermione changed into pajamas, inwardly ranting and raging about all of the reasons that she disliked Alphard. He was meddlesome, downright rude, obsessed with his job—and coming from her, that was beyond extreme, of course—and self-absorbed, and oddly angst-filled at strange moments. As she downed the last of the sleeping potion, sitting in her bed, which was still mussed from when he'd dragged her from bed, she reflected on the strange look in his eyes as Tracey had described her past.

He'd looked like something was hitting him too close to home. He'd looked haunted.

He'd looked, she reflected, just on the edge of sleep as she sank into her pillows, just like Sirius.


	7. Invincible

**Invincible**

* * *

Tracey woke with a start, and looked round her bedroom in search of the cause. Nothing seemed amiss. She rose from her bed, scowling at nothing, as she checked in her closet and under her bed. Those Wizards hanging about...what were they called? Aurors?—she didn't appreciate their presence. Really, how stupid could Hulga and James—not that she really thought those were their actual names—be, to leave Aurors at her flat? It was like they wanted to directly taunt Eric...they didn't understand him at all.

The minute he was told  _not_  to do something, well, then he'd have to do it, at all costs. Leaving Aurors to 'protect' her and Erica from Eric was perhaps the quickest way to put them in danger of him. Now, all she could do was wait until he inevitably showed up, outsmarted the Aurors left to guard them, and took Erica from her.

She shuffled into her slippers and, arms wrapped round her slim frame, crept into the hall. Erica's door was ajar, and she was fast asleep in a pile of toys. Tracey felt a searing pain in her chest— _heartache._  She loved her little girl so much it hurt—and it was all the worse knowing there was little she, or anyone else, could do to save Erica. She'd done her best all these years, but she knew her best wasn't enough. Eric got what he wanted, always. It was just a matter of time.

Ah...she'd almost forgotten...! Perhaps she did have a way of saving Erica, after all. Tracey returned to her bedroom, and glanced round warily. She didn't sense anyone watching, but she still couldn't help but wonder what had startled her awake. She steeled herself, and reached behind her pillows for the little box. She crouched on her mattress in front of it, facing the wall, hiding it from view.

Inside the little box was just a mobile phone; it was an old one, with a scratched case, that flipped open. It was running low on battery, but it still worked well enough. With trembling hands, she took it out of the box, and flipped it open. The contact list had just one contact.

She dialed the number, and waited.

He'd said he'd pick up her call any time.

 _He'd promised_.

The call went to voicemail.

 _Wait_ , she warned herself,  _he might just not have heard it ring_. It was an odd time to call, anyway, wasn't it? Still she felt resentment building up inside her, in spite of herself. He had  _promised_ her he'd help her, if she ever needed it. Feeling her eyes burn with the unfairness of it all, she dialed the number again.

The call went to voicemail again.

"Fuck," she swore in a wet voice. Her panic was rising now. "Useless fuck," she hissed at the mobile, squeezing it in her small, helpless hands. She tried once more, tears streaming down her cheeks now.

Voicemail again.

She was shaking.

Maybe he was asleep. Maybe he hadn't heard it. Maybe he was busy, and he'd get back to her later.

The thing was, she knew that she didn't  _have_  'later'.

"Erica," she choked out, rising from her bed. She went past her daughter's bedroom. "Erica, get dressed, we've got some errands to run!"

Furiously she wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her dressing gown, then went to the window. The December sky was steely grey; in the distance, black birds dotted the horizon. She forced open the window. She had no choices left; they'd cornered her, and like  _hell_  she would go down without a fight.

Tracey hurled the mobile out the window and heard the plastic shatter on the tarmac far below.

* * *

Alphard had returned to his own flat after leaving Hermione's, and had attempted and failed to sleep. As the room grew lighter, he began to feel more and more guilty about leaving Daphne's without explanation. It wasn't like they were serious, but he knew he'd been rude.

With a sigh, he dressed himself, and returned to her flat. Astoria's door was still shut; Daphne's was still open, presumably from when he had left. He went into her room and lingered by the door, watching her sleep. He crept to the bed and sat on the edge of it.

"You're back?" Daphne purred sleepily. She rose up on one elbow to look at him, the blankets falling away from her splendid nude form in the process.

"I had to work," he explained in a low voice, conscious of Astoria sleeping in the next room. "I—Granger found something important," he lied. "I wish I could stay, but I have to go work with her on something."

Daphne regarded him for a long moment; the sleepiness in her eyes faded and now she looked alert.

"I've heard you two have become inseparable," she remarked.

"I'm on an assignment with her," he explained, feeling defensive. Daphne slid back under the covers.

"Don't fall for her."

Alphard's breath caught in his throat. He stared at Daphne in shock.

"What?"

Her lips twisted.

"I may or may not like you more than I initially expected," she said haughtily, raising her chin.

"More than you initially expected?" Alphard prompted, arching his brows.

"Yes, and I won't say it again. So don't fall for her—or any other girl. Just don't."

Her tone was less playful now. She averted her eyes. "Kiss me," she demanded in a pouty voice. "Since you'll not even stay for breakfast."

Alphard rolled his eyes and leaned over the bed, resting his knee on the edge of it, and bent over and pressed his lips to her forehead.

He left Daphne's room, and shut the door. He paused in the living room, and stared at the door to Astoria's room. He knew he shouldn't, but...

...He crept to her purse and rifled through it. There was nothing of consequence in it. Scowling at nothing in particular, he left the Greengrass' flat.

* * *

Harry hadn't been able to sleep that night. He'd wanted nothing more than to sleep, and not have all of these stupid thoughts running through his mind. Instead he lay there in bed, next to a soundly sleeping Ginny, as he thought continuously of his interaction with Hermione earlier that evening. By dawn, his eyes burned with exhaustion and he felt unbalanced and shaky.

He got up out of bed and decided he'd go to work. Nothing else would hold his focus for very long, and he couldn't stand being consumed by thoughts of Hermione any longer.

The Ministry was blessedly empty. Harry went to his office and, after a moment's contemplation of what he should do, sat on top of his desk and listlessly rifled through the dozens of photographs that Whelkes had taken of the scene of the crime. He'd been through these photographs countless times already, but by this point, it was almost soothing to look through them.

Most were of different angles of Malfoy's body, with his head in the fireplace and his limbs at those strange angles, the carpet beneath him bloodstained. However, Whelkes, oddly thorough as always, had taken innumerable pictures of the rest of the room. Harry heaved a sigh and began scrutinizing each one as he'd already done so many times before.

What was it that Zabini had said?

_If I were you…I would look around Malfoy Manor a bit more closely._

Harry cursed and pitched several worthless pictures of an arrangement of creepy silver ornaments behind him; he heard them flap and flutter to the floor. There was no point looking round Malfoy Manor any more closely—every nook and cranny of the damn place was covered in evidence of the Dark Arts; hunting for any relevant clues would be like looking for a needle in a haystack—or, rather, looking for a particular needle in a pit of needles just like it.

He flicked through the other photographs boredly, trying to see them each in a different light. Whelkes had taken a series of pictures of the mantel over the fireplace that Malfoy had died in, for no apparent reason. Harry'd not bothered to look through those yet, because he knew they were worthless, but he had no other leads to go on so he examined them now.

The mantel was made of sleek mahogany; it was elaborately carved and adorned with numerous portraits of various Malfoys.

Then… something caught his eye.

The last photograph of the mantel was of the side, which had been partially hidden by a cabinet. The photograph was dark—there wasn't much natural light in the parlor—and at first glance it merely looked like a flaw in the otherwise flawless mahogany.

 _There's no mistaking it,_ Harry concluded. Scratched into the wood, crudely as though done with a penknife, was a symbol: a spiral with a slash through it.

It didn't look like a rune. Rather, it looked like a mindless doodle; it looked like nonsense. Harry tilted the picture this way and that, as though a different angle might present a new meaning.

 _Still, it's got to mean_ something,  _or else it wouldn't even be there,_ he thought, setting the photograph down. He shifted off the desk and grabbed his winter coat from the hook behind his door. Nothing to do but see it in person, he decided. He had low expectations for this, but he was willing to do just about anything that would keep his mind away from thoughts of Hermione.

* * *

Alphard returned to his flat and showered; he smelled like sex and Daphne's perfume, and it was making him feel strangely guilty. He got out of the shower and went to make himself some breakfast, when something silvery wafted into his flat and trundled across his countertops to float in front of him.

It was a marmoset Patronus—he recognized it as Whelkes' Patronus.  _That's right,_ he recalled,  _Whelkes is on watch duty on Tracey and Erica._

"The Muggle woman and the girl have gone missing," reported the Patronus in Whelkes' voice, distorted and echoing. Alphard dropped the frying pan he was holding; he didn't even hear it clang and clatter as it hit the kitchen floor.

* * *

Hermione awoke late in the morning. For a long moment she lay in bed, disoriented and groggy, until the previous evening's events returned to her, murky and shadowy from sleep.  _Oh, god,_ she inwardly groaned, as she recalled her dismissal of Alphard.

She really ought to apologize, she knew. She'd behaved horridly, especially after how kind to her he had been. Grumbling to herself, she got out of bed and wrapped herself in her dressing gown. Bleary-eyed, she went to put on a pot of tea and make some toast.

She heard a knock at the door and almost dropped the kettle in surprise.

"H-hello?" she called, her voice still raspy with sleep. She went to the door and peered through the peephole.

"Open up," Alphard demanded, just as she saw him through the peephole. He was garbed in dark jeans, a dark jumper, and simple leather jacket. His hair was still wet from a shower, and curled wetly against his neck, jaw, and forehead. Her mouth went dry as she found herself flushing in shame for noticing such details.

"Just a minute," she called, before stepping back and haphazardly flattening her assuredly wild hair. She tightened the belt of her dressing gown, drew in a deep breath, prayed she didn't have morning breath, and opened the door.

For a moment, she hadn't the faintest idea of what to say. Neither, it appeared, did Alphard. They avoided each other's eyes uncomfortably. A thousand things to say crashed on her tongue at once, so she couldn't seem to speak at all. She wanted to apologize for how she'd dismissed him; she wanted to thank him for his recent kindness; she also wanted to know  _why_  he was here  _right now._ She was also overcome with the ridiculous urge to dry his hair; the way it was clinging in wet tendrils to his skin was unbearably distracting. "I-I'm sorry, Alph—"

"Forget it," interrupted Alphard, finally looking at her. "Tracey and Erica have gone missing. It might be nothing, but..."

All nervousness, desire, and shame was banished from Hermione's mind as panic took hold.

"Missing? How? They were being watched," she demanded, backing away to allow Alphard entry to her flat. He entered and shut the door behind him.

"Whelkes says that the team was distracted by what they thought was Amundsen," explained Alphard, shaking his head. "They saw Tracey throw something out the window, then they thought they saw Amundsen—then when they checked back on Tracey and Erica, they were both gone."

"'Thought' they saw Amundsen? What does that mean? Here, let me get dressed," she rambled, rushing to her room and rifling through her drawers for fresh clothing. She hid behind the bathroom door as Alphard sat on the edge of her bed while she dressed as hastily as possible.

"They detected a magical signature and went after it. Chased it, lost it, then went back to the flat and Tracey and Erica were gone."

"Idiots. They all went?" She wriggled out of her pajamas and pulled on underwear and jeans, then realized she'd neglected to grab a bra.  _Bugger it all,_ she mentally grumbled, before slinking out of the bathroom in jeans and her pajama top. "Sorry, don't look," she ordered as she flung open her drawer, hunting for a clean bra.

"Yes—apparently forgot all of their training between them," Alphard said in disgust, raking a hand through his hair. "Whelkes is working with another team on tracking down Tracey and Erica, but at this point, they really could be anywhere in London or the surrounding areas," he added unhappily.

"Let me guess—none of them thought to put a trace on them," Hermione confirmed, straightening to look at Alphard, forgetting her appearance as well as the fact that she was clearly holding a bra in her hand. Alphard glanced at her.

"That's a nice casual look for you—ow!" He held his arms up to protect himself—and failed to do so in time—from the Hex she absently fired in his direction. "And yes, no one put a trace on them."

"I imagine there will be a number of demotions in the Auror department, come January," said Hermione crisply as she hid behind the door again and shimmied out of her pajama top.

"Let's hope I'm not one of them," said Alphard darkly.

"Let's just focus on finding Tracey and Erica," said Hermione. She stepped back into her room, now fully dressed. It was odd to see Alphard sitting on her bed. "On the other hand, they might've just left for an errand…"

Alphard shook his head.

"It could be. Either way, we've got to go to the flat first. Whelkes said something about her throwing something out the window—I have a feeling we'll need to know about that, whatever it is."

Alphard watched Hermione go to her closet and retrieve a Muggle coat and scarf.  _Don't fall for her._ Daphne's words from that morning played over and over in his head.

Why would  _he_  fall for  _Granger_?

He wanted to laugh.

What a stupid idea.

She'd left her underwear drawer open in her haste to hide her bra from him—as though he wouldn't notice. A sensible beige bra was hanging out of the drawer now, and he could easily see just as sensible black knickers in a pile in the drawer.  _Of course she'd have granny knickers,_ he inwardly snarked, thinking back on last night, and the highly complicated lingerie Daphne had been wearing.

And yet… the cups of the beige bra looked bigger than he would have thought Granger would need them to be.

He found himself covertly glancing at Granger, who was cursing rather creatively as she frantically tore her closet apart in search of a pair of snowboots. He'd been able to just barely see the outline of her form through her pajama top just now…

 _Oh, bloody hell. Am I_ really _checking Granger out?_

He turned his thoughts to Daphne, naked and not hidden by the covers, her soft curves on display for him earlier that morning.  _Don't fall for her…_

Granger straightened again, looking pleased with herself as she produced a pair of snowboots and shoved her feet into them.

"Okay,  _now_  I'm ready," she panted in exasperation with herself. "What are you looking at?" she demanded, pausing to eye him suspiciously.

For an uncomfortable moment, Alphard felt that strange sense of guilt that he'd had all morning. What was going on? He had done nothing wrong.

"Your knickers are hanging out of your drawer," he said with a salute to her drawer. Granger's face turned bright red as her eyes widened with horror.

"Oh, Merlin's pants," she groaned, whirling around and kicking the drawer shut. "You saw nothing!" she snapped, pointing her wand threateningly at him, her face still tomato-red. Alphard grinned as he rose to his feet.

"Nothing interesting, at lea— _protego!"_ He hastily blocked Hermione's oncoming Hex.

"Let's just go find Tracey and Erica," Hermione muttered darkly, storming out of her flat, her magic sparking in the air around her dangerously.

* * *

He was back at Malfoy Manor. Standing outside the gate, amidst the silent snow, adrift in his exhaustion, the world seemed to take on a surreal quality. Harry cast aside the gate with his wand, then froze mid-step.

He'd spent enough years hunting and being hunted to know when he was being watched.

His sleepiness bleached away; he was fully alert now, his muscles were tensed, and his wand was at the ready. He pretended to continue walking as he subtly looked round for any sign of any company, muttering a few choice spells under his breath.

Nothing.

There was no evidence of anyone else here with him.

…Was he losing his mind?

 _You're losing it because you haven't slept properly in weeks,_ he coached himself, shaking his head as though to shake off his paranoia. He continued along the path to the front door, and paused once more, looking back over his shoulder. Just as before, he found no sign of anyone watching him.

…Then why did he still feel like he was being watched?

Swallowing his baseless concerns, Harry uttered  _alohomora_  and pushed the heavy front door open, and entered Malfoy Manor.

He shut the door behind him, thus shutting out the grey December light, and ensconcing the hall in darkness. His boots tapped on the marble floor of the foyer as he crept along, tensed and ready for attack even though all facts pointed to him being utterly alone.

"Relax," he muttered to himself as he walked to the parlor, which was still taped off. He stepped over the tape and looked round the room. It was teeming with decorations, but a few smashed ornaments still lay in pieces on the carpet, very near the dark stain that Malfoy's bloodied body had left. The fireplace that had consumed his head was dark, and ashes were clumped along the marble edging the hearth. Harry's stomach turned as he thought of the fact that those ashes likely contained the remains of Malfoy's head and hair. The body that was being held at the morgue was a blackened mess; the face and skull were unrecognizable.

He went to the fireplace, avoiding looking at the dark stain on the floor, and felt along the mantelpiece for some sign of that symbol. The natural light let into the parlor by the large windows was not enough to reach the fireplace, and it was difficult to see. Swearing in frustration, Harry lit his wand and shone it upon the sleek mahogany. Sure enough, on the far side of the mantel, he found the carving.

In person, it was tiny. It looked like it had been done in a hurry. Harry peered at it and held his wandlight over it, examining it carefully. He ran his hand over it, feeling the contrast between the scarred carving and the wood that had been polished to feel like cool silk.

And suddenly the mantelpiece was moving. With a low, gravelly rumbling, it was shifting along the wall away from him, hearth and all…and slowly revealing a dark hole in the wall, just large enough for him to walk into in a crouch.

He swore softly in shock as his heart began to pound. When the opening had been fully revealed, he looked round warily once more, still with that feeling that he was being watched.

 _Should I let someone know where I am…?_ He pondered as he lingered in front of the opening. Then he was ashamed—it was probably just a hiding spot for more dark magic artifacts, or maybe an extensive elf-made wine cellar, or something else equally ridiculous, knowing the Malfoy family. Harry rolled his eyes at his foolishness, and entered the tunnel.

Even with his wandtip lit, the darkness of the tunnel soon became oppressive. It was a long way underground, and the floor of the tunnel became increasingly sloped, until he had to hug the wall to avoid slipping. And then—

"Bloody hell!"

He'd hit something. His wand flew out of his hand and the light went out as he fell backwards and skidded along the slippery stone floor. He scrambled to catch himself as he heard the wooden clatter of his wand tumbling away, out of reach, and then slammed into the wall and knocked his glasses off.

He slid to a halt, panting and clammy, and rolled over, patting the ground in search of his glasses, and heard a sickening, glassy  _crunch_ under his knee.

It was pitch-black, his glasses were broken, he'd lost his wand, and he was positive he'd hurt his leg. Above all, however, he was just glad no one had been there to see his clumsiness.

 _Ah, if only they could all see the exalted Chosen One now, defeated by… bumpy ground,_ he thought to himself ruefully, as he carefully felt along the ground for his wand. He grasped it blindly and sighed in relief, and was about to light the tip again, when he heard something.

Footsteps.

Someone was walking down the tunnel, approaching him.

He could just faintly see the glow of a lit wand, but he was virtually blind to details without his glasses. He tried to fumble for them as silently as possible. His blood was pounding in his ears; he couldn't breathe.

"There is no need to hide, Potter. I've followed you this far already."

The voice was distorted by the echo of the tunnel; it was familiar but he couldn't quite place it… It was deep, but flat and cold. He tightened his grip on his wand.

 _I'll disarm him, lock his limbs, then identify and question him,_ he planned, as he slowly attempted to shift into a sitting position. "I became  _quite_ adept at following people who do not wish to be followed, after I was assigned to tail Alphard Black," the voice continued. Harry's tired mind was working at lightning-speed to determine who it was.

He  _knew_  that voice… _who was it?_  "Shacklebolt didn't trust Furness' judgment, understandably, when he brought Black to the Ministry, so he asked  _me_  to follow him. And when I followed Black to your home—Sirius Black's former home, more importantly—I really thought I was witnessing an assassination attempt."

There was something about the voice that was filled with a dark, private relish.  _He's been dying to share this with me,_ Harry realized.

"But, as it turns out, Black simply wanted to learn more about his father."

_What?_

All plans of defense were banished from Harry's mind. For a moment, he was blinded by shock, frozen by what he had heard.  _His father?_

The owner of the voice reached him just as Harry regained himself. Even without his glasses, he could recognize him, this close.

"You," he gasped, raising his wand, his shock rendering him momentarily unable to Hex once more.  _He told me that just to stun me,_ he realized in disgust.  _He_ would  _relish the chance to hold something like that over me._ The owner of the voice held up his wand. Harry raised his.

" _Expel—"_

" _Obliviate."_

The world became blissfully opaque. Harry dropped to his knees, wondering where he was or why his body ached. " _Stupefy."_

And then he was out.

* * *

The shock had finally worn off; when Alphard and Hermione Apparated to Hackney, gone was any sign of jesting or joviality. Grim-faced and focused, they appeared behind an overflowing skip and began sprinting down the road, towards the fortress-like building that was home to Tracey and Erica.

"Their window's there, I think," panted Hermione, as she squinted up at the building, counting the stories by the windows.

"It should be somewhere here, then," said Alphard, as he began scanning the area.

"There's so much rubbish—it could be anything," Hermione despaired, splitting off from him as she kicked aside beer cans and other rubbish that was hidden by the ever-falling snow. "What if she just threw out—oh."

She halted in front of the shattered remains of a very old-fashioned mobile. "Found it," she sighed, looking back up at Tracey and Erica's window to assess the trajectory. Sure enough, it must have come from their window.

"Bloody hell," Alphard cursed under his breath as he ran to her side and saw the shattered mobile. He crouched down and combed through the plastic pieces. Hermione knelt down and covertly swept aside the snow with her wand, then muttered  _reparo_  and watched the mobile shakily reassemble before their eyes.

"It's probably beyond help," she said grimly as she held the mobile up. Even as she did so, a chunk of plastic fell off.

For a moment, they stared in hapless silence at the mobile. Her gut told her it was Tracey's, and also that it was probably very important, and would have been very helpful to them, had it not been broken.

"So she threw her mobile out to make sure she couldn't be traced," assessed Alphard flatly. "She must've known Amundsen was nearby and decided to flee."

" _How_ would she have known, though? Wouldn't we know if Amundsen had attempted to contact her?"

"Dunno. At this point I've got no faith left in the junior Aurors. If they were stupid enough to leave their charge completely alone, they were probably stupid enough to miss Amundsen contacting Tracey before that," he said bitterly, as they both straightened up. He exhaled hotly, his breath clouding in the air before him. Snowflakes lingered in his still-wet hair and gathered on his shoulders. Absently, Hermione reached up and brushed off his shoulders, before she realized what she was doing.

Alphard looked at her like she'd grown a second head.

"Sorry," she stammered. "I think I'm so used to mothering all males around me," she prattled, her face growing hot as she looked away from Alphard.

"I don't need a mother." He sounded amused. When she had recovered and looked back at him, however, he wasn't smiling.

"I suppose you don't," she sighed. "I guess we ought to go to their flat and look for any clues. I think I know of a tracking spell we could use, if we've got an object of Tracey's with strong emotional attachment," she continued, mopping her face. She stuffed the mobile in her purse and turned away, then paused once more and looked back, biting her lip.

Alphard was studying her. Goosebumps prickled along her skin. "I really am sorry about how I acted last night," she added uncomfortably. "It wasn't anything personal, and I don't think the handkerchief was meaningless. I was just…"

She hesitated. She was just…what? "…I was being self-absorbed and thinking only of myself," she finished.

Alphard studied Hermione's eyes. They were a warm brown, lighter than his own, with softer, lighter, sparser lashes than his own. In the back of his mind he knew they didn't have time to waste, knew that the longer they dawdled, the further Tracey, Erica, and Amundsen all got, and yet…  _Don't fall for her._

He couldn't help but think of Potter, who relied on Granger like a crutch. What was it like to be Hermione Granger, who loved endlessly, without hope of that love being returned? Her love for Potter was a waste.

Sometimes it felt like all things human were a waste.

In one hundred years, they'd all be dead and gone; all of  _this_  would be forgotten and lost. If that was true, then why did it feel so bloody vital?

"Seriously," he began, shaking his head. He stepped forward and cuffed her on her head. "Forget it."

They hurried up to Tracey and Erica's flat. Alphard searched the flat for anything noteworthy whilst Hermione hunted for an object of appropriate importance. In Tracey's bedroom, she came upon another mobile, however—a much newer one, that was connected to a charger in the wall.

"Er…Alphard, look at this," she called unhappily. "Looks like she had two mobiles."

"Maybe one was Erica's?" Alphard supplied hopefully as he entered the bedroom, empty-handed.

"Maybe," she said doubtfully. She unlocked the mobile and scrolled through it, but found nothing of import. "This is definitely Tracey's. I don't see why she'd let a six year old have a mobile, since it looks like they can barely afford food."

"Let's try using the old mobile to track them," Alphard suggested. "It looks like she was planning to run, after all—a lot of the girl's stuff is gone. They wouldn't bring so much with them if they were really just out for a bit."

"We've got nothing better," she agreed, fishing around in her purse for it. They sat on Tracey's unmade bed, and Hermione retrieved her wand, mumbling the spell. "I guess it  _was_  important," she observed, as a spark erupted from the cracked mobile and hovered above it.

"Let's follow it." Alphard sprang from the bed. "We can follow it by broom and make ourselves invisible," he strategized, conjuring a broom with his wand. "Better to just ride together—the snow will make it hard to see."

"Yes, that, and I can't exactly ride a broomstick," Hermione confessed, growing pink. Alphard glanced back at her as he forced open one of the windows.

"You can hold onto me," he jested, winking at her.

"Oh, rapture—I'm the envy of every female in Britain," she said dryly, as she boarded the broom with him. She cast Disillusionment charms over both of them and watched the back of Alphard's head become invisible.

And then they were off in the snow. The spark zoomed on ahead, barely visible through the snow that was falling harder than before. Hermione's arms were wrapped tightly round Alphard's lean, sinewed torso. She cast charms to repel the snow and keep them both warm and dry, but it was hard to keep up with the snow.

The buildings eventually became shorter and further apart; briefly they flew over the Thames' inlet; now they were along the southernmost coast. The spark, just meters ahead, began to lose altitude and drop towards the ground. Alphard was an expert flyer, and easily followed it downward.

They were on cliff faces by the sea; distantly, blurred by the snow, was Dover overlooking them. They settled on the snow-covered grass, with the ocean below roaring.

The spark zoomed over the edge of the cliff face and out of sight. Alphard kicked off and followed it; Hermione had to hold onto him for her life with the dramatic precision of the downward turn over the cliff.

He hovered halfway down the cliff face as the spark turned sharply and disappeared in a cave in the middle. It wouldn't have been accessible without a broom or some kind of magic.

 _So he's already gotten to them…_ her stomach gave a lurch as Alphard swiftly followed the spark inside the mouth of the cave.

It was dark and wet, but at least they weren't being pelleted with snow and hail now. They landed shakily on the icy rocks; Hermione hastily cast a few choice charms and they stabilized. She removed the Disillusionment charms and watched Alphard melt into being before her eyes.

A scream echoed through the cave. Wordlessly, Alphard and Hermione sprinted further into the cave. Alphard was quicker, and easily dodged the stalagmites and stalactites as he ran. Hermione was slower and less coordinated, and was irritated by the growing lag between them as well as the increasing stitch in her side.

That scream had been Erica's, she knew.

Were they too late?

Alphard skidded to a halt ahead of her; Hermione slid on the rocks and slammed into his back.

"James! Hulga!"

It was Erica.

She was alone, curled up against the wall of the cave. Blood was trickling down her forehead and her cheeks were filthy and tearstained. Gasping for breath, clutching her side, Hermione lunged for the little girl, taking her into her arms.

"Shh, it's going to be alright," she soothed, rocking her gently. "Where is your mum, Erica?" Her voice broke.

"G-gone, with my dad, and it's my fault!" she wailed.

"Spark went that way, Granger," interrupted Alphard, nodding to an offshoot leading further into darkness. "Let's go."

"We can't leave her," hissed Hermione, feeling Erica's little body tremble. Alphard exhaled.

"Fine—then I'll go; you stay here." Before she could agree or disagree, he had turned on his heel and was sprinting further into darkness.

"D-don't go," Erica whimpered, holding Hermione tighter. Hermione could not bring herself to speak; she was torn between wanting to follow Alphard and wanting to keep Erica safe. She knew she couldn't do both, so she simply froze up, holding Erica, her eyes wide with horror.

A guttural cry of pain reverberated throughout the cave.  _Alphard!_

"Stay here, Erica. I'll make sure you're safe—I'll be right back," she soothed, releasing Erica and nonverbally casting as many protection spells as she could think of.

She heard Erica crying but she told herself she would be safe as she followed the path Alphard had gone down.

Another guttural cry echoed, bouncing off the walls. She was getting closer. Her palms were hopelessly sweaty, and her wand kept slipping in her grip. She cast  _lumos_  as she ran.

She came to a fork; the offshoot divided in two.  _I'll have to guess,_ she realized, panicking internally. There was no time to dither—she chose the right side and continued sprinting.

There were no other screams. She couldn't seem to think; she could only keep running, stumbling along, praying, praying, praying.

She slammed into something hard, and fell backwards. Instincts that had been built up during the Horcrux hunt made her tighten her grip on her wand, even as her body screamed with pain at the impact. Her head bashed into rock and for a moment she saw stars. She screamed through her teeth in agony as she scrambled to her feet again.

"Supposed Brightest Witch of her age, eh?"

The voice was a seductive baritone. Hermione hid her wand, backing up, as another wandlight flickered, revealing a handsome face with swarthy brows and eyes.

It was Amundsen.

He was taller than she'd been prepared for, and garbed in stylish Muggle clothes. His blond hair was wild and mussed and damp from the snow. The crisp white shirt he wore was spattered with blood.

She watched him utter a spell demonstratively, and Alphard's cry echoed off the walls around them.

_No._

She was blinded with disbelief. How had she been tricked so easily, and by something  _so simple_? How had she not known better?

 _No,_ she thought with increasing panic.  _I've left Erica alone...just as he obviously planned._

Before she was ready, Amundsen had fired a Hex at her. She just barely dodged it in time, having ducked out of the way, and shakily sent a nonverbal  _expelliarmus_  at him—but she missed.

"Where's Tracey?" she demanded, firing another Hex at him.  _If I can just distract him long enough, maybe Alphard can get back to Erica..._ This one took hold, and Amundsen cried in surprise as boils erupted over his skin. He muttered the anti-hex through clenched teeth and fired  _Crucio_  at her.

She couldn't dodge or block this one.

Blinding pain.

She dropped to her knees.

Dimly she knew her wand was rolling away but it didn't matter anymore. She heard screaming. Was it her, this time?

"Oh, she's right where she belongs," replied Amundsen softly. "I really thought you'd be more of a challenge. I've been looking forward to this, ever since you found the anastasis."

She couldn't process the horror of his response in tandem with the excruciating, fiery pain. She wanted it to end, it didn't matter how; she just needed to not  _feel_  anymore.

Suddenly, she heard a voice cry out a Hex; she heard Amundsen grunt in pain; there was a sharp  _crack_ —had someone Apparated?—and then she was lying on her back, drenched in cold sweat, shaking and weak.

"You were with Erica," she heard Alphard despair. "Why did you leave?"

She couldn't move or speak. She lay there, helplessly, still shaking, and felt a hand on her forehead, pushing her hair back gently.

"H-heard you b-being tortured," she gasped. "It was a trick," she choked, attempting to sit up. "Go—Erica—I put spells—he's so strong though—"

Alphard was gone immediately; she heard his crack of Apparition. She was so filled with shame that she wanted to simply curl up and die. She'd been tricked, then so easily bested in a duel that it was like she'd not had magic at all.

She swallowed her shame and fumbled for her wand. She shakily got to her feet and turned on the spot, Apparating back to Erica.

When she reappeared, she collapsed again. Alphard was standing where Erica had been mere moments ago.

"Too late," he said hollowly. Hermione couldn't look at him. She choked on a low sob and covered her face.

"I just—" she began in horror. She felt his hand on her shoulder, steadying her. "It's all my fault—"

"Pull yourself together, Granger," he snapped. "We both fucked up. The spark led me to Tracey but she was already dead. Amundsen knew exactly how we'd react, it seems," he said in disgust, pulling her to her feet. Hermione nearly fell over again, and felt Alphard steadying her.

"I couldn't—I just—I was useless—" she gasped.

"Amundsen's bested everyone in a duel so far," he said, his voice marginally gentler now, in her ear. Her shoulders shook with muted sobs. "Stop it," he said more firmly now, yet she felt his hands smooth the fabric of her coat on her back, then halt, as though he just was realizing what he'd done.

They broke apart abruptly. Hermione leant against the wall for support and wiped her eyes on her sleeve.

"We'll get them," she gasped. "This is not the end," she resolved, though tears kept slipping from her eyes. She despised herself for crying. Why did she always have to cry?

She was so weak.

"That's more like it. Come on, let's get…the body," he said, his voice tightening.

* * *

When they returned to the Ministry, bearing Tracey's body, Hermione sent Patronuses to Kingsley, Whelkes, and Furness, then helped Alphard to transport Tracey's body to the morgue.

Amundsen hadn't simply killed Tracey; it looked like she'd put up a fight. Her clothes and hair had been sticky with blood. After depositing her body, they had to wait for Kingsley and Furness to come to the Ministry.

"You're a mess," observed Alphard, as they left the morgue. "Did you hit your head?"

It was throbbing so hard she could barely think. She nodded mutely. As though in a dream, she found herself following Alphard towards the Auror department. In the same room as where she had seen his tattoo, she sat on the edge of the cot while Alphard attempted to temporarily stitch up the gash on her head.

He stood between her legs, while she bowed her head, to allow him easier access to the wound. Had she been in less pain, she would have found the position embarrassingly intimate. She felt his fingers push aside her hair, then carefully—more carefully than she would have thought him capable of—he cleaned the wound before stitching it.

"These'll have to be redone."

"I-it's fine," she mumbled, hating how unsteady her voice was. "I'm so sorry," she added, feeling the tears welling up hotly again and drip off her nose, onto her leg. Her head was pressed against his stomach, and she felt him scoff.

"Me, too. I thought—" His voice caught. "I thought we had it," he finished, after he had taken in a few deep breaths.

"I feel so powerless," she whispered.

"You're not."

"You sound so certain," she said thickly, with a wet laugh.

"Because I am."

"You know…I was so sure you thought me beyond contempt," she confessed. "You never treated me like you treated other women."

"I guess I didn't."

"Why not?"

He had finished stitching; he pulled away, and Hermione straightened. Her face was flushed from hanging her head and still wet with tears.

She was filled with a new desperation as their eyes met.

"Why did you want me to?" he countered. "Why did you  _want_  me to treat you like I treat everyone else?" he reiterated, stepping closer, raising his voice.

_He's just as desperate as I am._

He was about to say something. But she'd never know what, she supposed, because they were interrupted at that moment by Furness and Kingsley.

"My office," ordered Furness, " _now._ "

* * *

It was dark by the time they left Furness' office. Hermione, Alphard, and Kingsley stood in the hall, none of them prepared to speak.

"Granger, go home and get some sleep," Kingsley finally said, placing his hand on her shoulder. "You too, Black. You both have been through hell and back today. No one could have predicted that it would turn out this badly."

"But—"

"Erica's still out there," said Alphard furiously. "Why isn't this a priority?"

"Because we've got other problems," interrupted Furness, coming out of his office, looking weary.

"What other problems?" Hermione felt sick.

Furness and Kingsley looked between each other, then at Hermione and Alphard.

"…Potter's missing."


	8. Uprising

**Uprising**

* * *

Alphard and Hermione stared at Kingsley, both numb with shock. Alphard was the first to react, and he turned sharply on his heel and paced, letting out a low, seething oath.

"Surely it can't—" Hermione grappled at the air. Kingsley looked to Furness mutely. Furness let out a sigh, mopping at his balding head.

"Potter's fiancée came by the Ministry earlier today looking for him. She said he had disappeared early that morning without a word, and she'd not heard from him all day. No one else has seen him."

Hermione thought of the night before—she and Harry had both been at the Ministry quite late. Ostensibly she would be the last person to have seen him, aside from Ginny.

"Potter's done this before," Kingsley cautioned them all. "He might've found a lead and is tracking something and lost track of time."

"A lead on  _what_ , though? The Malfoy case—" Alphard barked out a sardonic laugh, turning around suddenly again. "—Well, if he found a lead on that, I can't imagine he'd be gone this long. Where would he  _go_? Malfoy Manor isn't far—"

"Listen, Hermione—just go to St Mungo's and get stitches, for now," Kingsley interrupted as he eyed her worriedly.

"I'll take her—"

"—You're coming with me, Black," interrupted Furness, stepping swiftly in front of Alphard. "I'm quite confident that Granger can escort herself to St Mungo's."

Alphard glanced at Hermione, and then obediently followed Furness back into his office. The door clicked shut, leaving Kingsley and Hermione alone in the hall. Hermione let out a shaky breath and stared at her shoes.

"There is nothing you can do." Kingsley's voice was gentle. "We've already got the entire Ministry on this, practically, and you've had a hell of a day." She felt him set his hand on her shoulder. "If you hadn't been involved in the Amundsen case, we probably wouldn't even have got this much. You've earned a chance to sleep."

"Thanks," she said hollowly, before turning away from Kingsley and walking down the hall in a trance.

She couldn't remember the last time she had been this physically and emotionally exhausted. It had to be the Battle of Hogwarts. Hermione went to her office, on autopilot, and gathered a few books, before locking the door and turning to leave for St Mungo's. Her head was throbbing and her hands wouldn't stop shaking. She couldn't draw in a satisfying breath—it was like there was an ever-swelling balloon inside of her.  _Everything is wrong and there is nothing I can do._

"Hermione."

_For the love of Cornish Pixies…_

She was passing by Nott's office and heard him call out to her. For a long moment, she considered simply continuing on and acting as though she'd not heard him, but before she could make a decision, Nott had left his desk and was now standing in the doorway to his office, regarding her.

"Oh, Nott. You're here," she greeted lamely, trying to act like she hadn't been planning on ignoring him. Nott was peering at her with that same too-heavy gaze he often had, as though she had some flaw on her face that he was examining closely.

"Potter's missing. Of course Minister Shacklebolt is calling on all potential aid," explained Nott. He seemed to regret his tone, for he added hastily, "Understandably, of course. Potter is invaluable to the Ministry."

She wanted to slap him. He was so unbelievably insensitive at the worst times. Hermione looked away, pinching the bridge of her nose.

"Right. Well, I've got to pop out, then—"

"To where?" Nott interrupted, stepping away from the doorframe. "You are covered in blood." His voice had softened.

 _Oh, Merlin's pants. Really,_ now _is the time he chooses to suddenly turn human?_ She wanted to scream, or slap him.

"St Mungo's, actually. Need stitches in my head. I'll just be going, then," she said shortly, turning away and making to leave, but Nott was following her.

"You have lost a significant amount of blood. I am concerned," he called after her. "Let me go with you."

Hermione, still facing away from Nott, paused and closed her eyes, and prayed for some kind of patience, but she was truly at the end of her rope.

"I'd really rather be alone right now—"

"You didn't abandon me when I would have preferred to be alone, and I was better in the end for it." Nott's voice was strangled with emotion. Hermione could not bring herself to look at him. "I will join you and there is nothing you can do about it. Wait while I retrieve my cloak."

 _Nothing I can do about it? Bite me, Nott,_ she thought furiously, though she didn't bother trying to outrun him, and simply stood there with her eyes closed whilst she waited.

"Shouldn't you be on the search?" she asked as they commenced walking towards the lift. Nott snorted.

"Like you, I am far more helpful behind a desk," he remarked. For some reason, Hermione thought of Alphard's words from the first day they had worked together.

_You're good, you know. You're wasted in Magical Law._

Alphard was the only one who had ever said anything like that, and the pride it had given her left her now with a sudden resentment for Nott's words.  _I'm not just a bookworm,_ she found herself inwardly seething, feeling mutinous, feeling like starting a fight.  _Who stayed with Harry all through the Horcrux hunt? Who stuck through the Battle of Hogwarts?_

And yet…  _who just failed spectacularly in a basic duel?_ Her momentary self-esteem was uprooted yet again.

Perhaps Nott was right.

In silence, they left the Ministry and Apparated to St Mungo's. Hermione was feeling more faint now, and for a weak moment, she was actually grateful that Nott was there.

Soon she found herself alone in a hospital bed, wearing hospital robes and waiting for a Healer to free up and see her. Undressed, she had stood in her curtained-off section round the bed, and looked down in surprise at her own naked form. She'd sustained more injuries than initially realized; her legs and arms were purpled with nasty bruises and her knees and elbows were now beginning to sting from scrapes, now that her shock was beginning to wear off.

 _Erica…_  She gave a dry sob before she could stop herself, crawled onto the bed, and rested her forehead against her knees to hide her face. Tracey was dead; Amundsen was gone with Erica to who knew where; and Harry was missing in action. The only way things could get worse was also the only way that things would likely progress at this point. She'd seen enough cases like these in her career already to know that it was very, very unlikely that Harry and Erica were still alive.

 _Dead…_  Another sob escaped her and her stupid hands and legs couldn't quit their shaking. She wrapped the blanket around herself and rolled onto her side, burying her face in darkness.

For some reason she thought of Alphard's fingers, surprisingly gentle, moving along her scalp as he had stitched her wounds.

* * *

After a grueling second retelling of the day's events with Furness, Alphard was finally free. Furness had insisted that Alphard too go to St Mungo's for his injuries, then return home to get some sleep. On his way out, Furness had reluctantly admitted that Alphard and Granger had done more than anyone else could have done to rectify the failure of the junior Aurors.

As Alphard returned home, he recalled the day for himself.

The moment he'd found Tracey's body, he'd realized they had been fooled—and the next moment, just as he had been crouching down to pointlessly check the dead woman's vitals, he'd heard screams and shrieks that he would have recognized anywhere.

When he had finally found Granger and watched Amundsen disappear, he'd known immediately that he would have to go to Erica if he wanted to save her. And yet… he had found himself dropping to his knees beside Granger's form. Her small form had been twisted up in anguish; her eyes open but unseeing, and wild in her pain.

She'd immediately told him to go, though. She'd kept her head even in the midst of the Cruciatus Curse.

_You never treated me like you treated other women._

He hadn't sustained any significant injuries; the only thing St Mungo's could possibly treat him for was shock, and he knew he could handle that on his own. He didn't want to go to St Mungo's; he didn't want to see Daphne; but somehow, he didn't want to be alone in his flat, either. For some reason, the thing that sounded most appealing was to be back in Granger's flat, sitting on her bed as he had just this morning, teasing her.

He returned home in spite of this, and took a shower, rinsing off the day. He stood under the hot water, motionless, staring at the tiled wall in front of him. A gnawing emptiness, like a black hole, was consuming him from inside. In that moment he would have done anything— _anything_ —to fill the void, but he knew this feeling so well by now that he knew to simply stay still and let the feeling pass.

If he hadn't been so selfish, he might've been able to save Erica.

He was fractured, splintered; at once he was nothing and everything. For a long moment, the world around him became unreal. Everything disassembled itself before his eyes, into unrecognizable pieces; he was somehow watching himself from afar.

Soon, as though reality had been turned back on, he was aware again of the blaring sound of rushing water; the shower water was no longer as hot and he was standing there, under the stream of lukewarm water, gasping, staring at the tile, as though he'd suddenly been returned to his body.

He finished showering, and was toying with the idea of sleep when he heard Pucey's owl at his window, with a note tied to his talon.

_Up for a drink tonight?_

Alphard scribbled an affirmative and sent it back with the owl, feeling relief. He knew he'd not sleep, and he didn't want to be alone.

He met Pucey at a pub in Knockturn Alley soon after. He spotted his friend sitting at the bar, looking drawn and unusually listless.

"Firewhiskey, thanks," said Alphard to the barkeep as he approached Pucey.

"Alright, Black," he greeted with a nod, managing a half-smile.

"You look like a ball of fun to be around," remarked Alphard as he slid into the stool next to Pucey.

"Ah, Astoria sacked me," he confessed, looking into the bottom of his nearly-finished glass.

"Oh?"

"Yep." He let out a callous laugh. "After all that."

"Wasn't it…less than a week?" Alphard pointed out with a smirk. Adrian bowed his head.

"Yeah, but I spent every waking minute of it with her, not counting work," he countered, bristling. "Just my luck to fall for the mental ones."

"Mental?"

"Oh yeah, she's a nutter, that one." He took a long swig of his drink, polishing off the glass, and prompted the bartender for another.

"…Well, what happened?"

"Oh, the usual," began Adrian, sounding sarcastic, "she said she couldn't see me because she wasn't  _ready_."

Alphard's heart began to race.  _Because she's not over Zabini,_  he finished mentally. "Because she went through some bad stuff," Adrian continued, toying with his fresh glass of firewhiskey, "and she thinks she just can't be with anyone right now."

"Bad stuff? Like…a death?" Alphard prompted, trying to hide the hope and interest in his voice. Adrian looked surprised.

"A death? No, nothing like that," he replied bemusedly. "Nah, she …well, it's none of my business." He let out a sigh but didn't continue. Alphard bit his lip. He wanted to shake Adrian.

"That's rough," he finally replied, watching Adrian nod distractedly.

_Tell me!_

Adrian began talking about an odd interaction he'd had at work earlier that day, and Alphard forgot to pay attention as he ruminated. Could he mean that Astoria had been through a breakup?

It was no good. He couldn't focus on anything else until he could be certain that this had no relevance to Zabini's death.

"Pucey, wasn't Astoria…you know…a bit… _taken_?" Alphard interrupted. Adrian looked shrewdly at Alphard.

"What's it to you?"

"Well, ' _bad stuff'_  is just a strange description," he said slowly. "Is that how she described it?"

"Look, let's just forget that, alright?" Adrian was beginning to look mad. "I shouldn't have said anything. It's not my place," he added firmly, more to himself than Alphard.

Alphard knew to let it drop this time, and for the rest of the evening, they ignored the subject of Astoria widely. However, Alphard couldn't let go of it inwardly, and even as he told Adrian some of the day he'd had, he was partially fixated on this new discovery.

_Looks like I'll be seeing Daphne soon after all._

* * *

"Hermione?"

Hannah Abbott, now a Healer, stood in the part in the curtains, looking shaken. "What in Merlin's name happened?"

Hermione pushed her hair out of her face, flushing in embarrassment. She'd been curled on her side on the hospital bed, and she was sure she looked like hell. She'd drifted in and out of a restless sleep—the hospital was busy today and she'd had to wait a number of hours.

"I—I was helping the Auror department with a case," she explained, her voice breaking. Hannah's eyes were filled with sympathy.

"It must have been bad," she said gently, closing the curtains and coming to Hermione's bedside.

Mercifully, Hannah did not ask Hermione any irrelevant or extraneous questions. She restitched her wounds—"Whoever did these did a pretty fine job," she'd said of Alphard's stitches—and treated the more extreme cuts and scrapes.

"Take this. You look like you've had a shock," Hannah said after finishing with Hermione's physical wounds. She handed Hermione a small phial. "And get some sleep. You need it," she urged, placing a gentle hand on Hermione's shoulder.

"Thanks," said Hermione, watching Hannah leave.

Hermione had no desire to remain in St Mungo's. She'd only had unhappy experiences here, and the lighting and noise were unsettling. She changed back into her clothes, which were still blood-stained and filthy. She didn't care, at the moment. She left the hospital bed and went to the waiting area, expecting Nott to have left by now.

He was sitting up in one of the rigid chairs, scanning the  _Prophet_  like he was searching for type errors. He lowered the paper when Hermione came to stand near him.

"You waited," she said in surprise. Nott looked back down, busying himself with folding up the  _Prophet._

"I wouldn't escort you here then simply leave without you. That would make no sense," he condescended. He tucked the folded-up paper in the pocket of his cloak and rose to his feet. "Are you feeling better, then?"

"Yes, much," said Hermione. She and Nott walked in silence out to the entrance of St Mungo's. Out in the London streets, it was dark, and snowy. The air was electric with Christmastime excitement, and Hermione waited to be filled with that old wistfulness she always got round Christmastime. This time, however, she felt nothing.

"Well," began Nott uncomfortably.

"I—" Hermione halted.

"Yes?"

"No, you go."

"I did not truly have anything to say," said Nott. He shifted from side to side.

"Neither did I."

They stood in the snow in silence, watching the world carry on around them, each wishing they were almost anyone but themselves. "I lost a duel," Hermione said now, with a dull laugh. "That's what happened."

"Well, you did not exactly give off the appearance of someone who had  _won_  a duel," said Nott snidely. Hermione grinned in spite of herself. "Dueling has never been your strength, if I recall."

"No," she sighed, watching a couple walking with their young child between them, laughing as the little girl pointed at lights and Christmas decorations in store windows, shrieking with delight each time.  _If I'd been better…_

A ridiculous idea struck her now. She turned to Nott. "Was it yours? It was, wasn't it?" She could vaguely remember comments on Nott's dueling abilities during Hogwarts…

"Not particularly, but I can certainly hold my own against the average witch or wizard," said Nott, looking like he was trying not to look too pleased with himself.

"Teach me, then."

Nott looked scandalized.

"Granger, we are Jurators. Not Aurors," he said levelly. "Dueling with wands is hardly necessary."

"Then I'll find someone else," she retorted. She looked around but the couple with the young child had disappeared into the crowds on the pavements.

"W-well, wait a moment," said Nott quickly. She glanced back at him. His face was illuminated by a streetlamp overhead; he looked boyish for a moment. "If you would have anyone teach you, it would have to be someone who understood where your real strengths are," he said stiffly.

"So you will," she confirmed. Nott looked round, as though for witnesses.

"Yes," he said finally, with great pain.

"Let's go now." She began to march towards an alleyway to Apparate. Nott scrambled after her.

" _Now?_  Granger, you were just treated for severe tissue damage at St Mungo's. Now is hardly the moment to be—"

"Now or never. I'm sure I can find someone else," said Hermione, looking back at him. Nott let out a hapless sigh.

"It appears there is nothing I can do to dissuade you," he said, rolling his eyes as he hastened to follow her.

* * *

Alphard had only just returned to his flat before he heard a knock at his door. It couldn't be Granger, and yet, he found her to be the only person likely to randomly appear at his flat on a Saturday evening. Bracing himself to command her to go home and get some rest, he set his jaw and opened the door.

Ron Weasley was standing in the hall, pale and shaky with nervousness.

"Alright, Black," he greeted quickly, starting slightly as though he'd not expected Alphard to actually open the door.

"Weasley," shot back Alphard, arching his brows at Weasley. "Is this about Potter?"

"I know you've had a rough day, but we're fumbling," he explained in haste, pushing his hair back. He looked like he would have chosen to be anywhere but here, in this moment. Alphard leaned against the doorframe, filled with a sudden catlike superiority. There were few things he enjoyed more than having the upper hand against someone who had treated him poorly.

"Fumbling?" he asked innocently, crossing his arms. He watched Weasley scowl, then hastily attempt to smooth away any signs of irritation. "What do you mean?"

"The Auror department. It's bungling the search for Harry, like it bungles pretty much everything, these days," snapped Weasley, his ears growing pink. "I've learned enough to know when to ask for help, at least, and this is a time where we need help." He glanced at Alphard again. "This is off the record, obviously, but then, my asking you is, too."

He might've said no, but there was something that gave him pause. Alphard chewed his lip. He thought of the look on Granger's face when they'd learned Potter was missing. A swooping sensation in his gut floored him.

"Let me get my coat," he said after a moment. "You can come in."

"…That was bloody easy. Thought you'd put up a fight," marveled Weasley as he stepped inside, adjusting his own coat as though reflexively going to shrug it off, then thinking better of it. "Nice place you got here," he added uncomfortably, looking round Alphard's flat. Alphard pulled on his leather jacket, then thought better of it, and got his heavier coat. The snow was thick outside. "No girlfriend?"

"Oh, don't bother, Weasley, you're a terrible actor," said Alphard wearily. He stuffed his backup wand in his coat pocket—it wasn't as loyal to him, understandably, but he'd been in enough close scrapes to know it was worth carrying—and patted his pockets, feeling like he was forgetting something. "Let's head out," he said, then, and gave an over-the-top  _after you_ gesture to Weasley as he held the door open for him.

"We'll Apparate to Malfoy Manor. Furness refuses to search there, for whatever mental reason, but I  _guarantee_  you he went there," said Weasley as they trundled down the dark, cramped hall outside of Alphard's flat. Outside, in Knockturn Alley, they glanced round before Apparating immediately, disappearing into the dark snow.

With a crack that split the silent night they reappeared outside of Malfoy Manor. Alphard was feeling grateful that he'd switched to a heavier coat—his fingers were already tingling with numbness.

"This snow," Alphard grumbled, casting around for any signs of disturbances.

"I know. It'll ruin any tracks he might've left," agreed Weasley, as he began stalking towards the front door of the manor. A grudging respect for the redhead left Alphard uncomfortable and almost resentful: considering the intense friendship between Weasley and Potter, and considering Weasley's general temperament, it was an impressive feat indeed that he was keeping his cool like this.

Weasley paused at the front door, looking back to Alphard uncomfortably. "Well, then, where do you suggest we start?" he asked gruffly, avoiding Alphard's eyes. Alphard grinned.

"You had the right idea, Weasley," he teased gently, as he opened the door for the redhead.

"I'd've asked Hermione, but I think she's a bit at the end of her rope, and she's always saying how talented you are," Weasley said as they entered the silent front hall, his voice bouncing off the frigid marble surfaces.

"Granger had a hell of a day," agreed Alphard heavily as they lit their wands and poked round the front hall. "Potter?" called Alphard.

"Kingsley said she was at St Mungo's."

"She lost a lot of blood," explained Alphard. He went to the parlor—the scene of Malfoy's death. "Something feels different here, doesn't it?" He stood in the parlor. Something about the room seemed…unsettled. Fresher. Like the dust had been kicked up a bit.

"Someone's definitely been here recently," agreed Weasley as he came to stand next to Alphard. " _Hominum revelio."_

Nothing.

"Got anything important of Potter's on you?" Alphard queried, thinking of the tracking spell Granger had employed earlier. At once he was assaulted with the image of her writhing in pain on the cavern floor, and he was forced to again relive the feeling that his heart was being squeezed indefinitely.  _Don't fall for her._

"He put some spell on him to ward off that tracking spell," countered Weasley unhappily. "Believe me, I already tried it."

"What about the area surrounding the manor? I don't think we're going to find anything immediately useful, and if he is—you know—caught somewhere, then we don't have time to piece together vague clues," said Alphard, turning away from the parlor.

"He wouldn't bother searching outside, but then again, if he got led away…" Weasley mopped at his face. "Merlin. Every time I start to relax, Harry gets himself in some sort of mess."

"And you and Granger have to chase after him?" prompted Alphard as they exited through the front door. He heard Weasley sigh.

"Hermione's usually already after him; then I have to follow her, too." He let out a sardonic laugh. "I'm surprised you've not asked me about when I was with her," he remarked. Alphard stepped off the front step and looked towards the west; looming, gnarled woods sprawled ahead of them. Like a sixth sense, he just  _knew_  they'd have to go into the woods.

"Why would I?" He set off towards the woods, with Weasley hastening to follow him.

"Blokes who get to know her always seem to want to ask me about her," he explained. Alphard scoffed.

"Don't take it personally, but I really don't care," he said over his shoulder. "Come on—let's search for him here. Be on your guard—if he is here, then someone—or something—put him here."

"See, the fact that you're  _not_ asking is exactly why I think you want to know even  _more_ ," Weasley continued as they re-lit their wands, put up the hoods of their coats, and ventured into the snowy bramble.  _So Weasley has to attack someone else to distract himself,_ surmised Alphard. He knew that game all too well. He played it constantly.

"Weasley, if you spend all your time obsessing over who else is obsessed with Granger as you are, you'll never get anywhere in your career," snarked Alphard. "And you'll probably never win her back, either."

"What makes you think I want to win her back?" he countered, panting as he navigated the bramble and thickets, scrambling after Alphard. "Why'd you assume she sacked me? Maybe it was the other way round."

"If so then why are you bothering me about her?" Their voices echoed throughout the woods. Alphard's heart was racing. He had a bad feeling about this—a really, really bad feeling.

"D'you get the feeling…" he heard Weasley pause, his voice no longer combative and defensive. Alphard stopped and looked back at him, nodding. Weasley was white beneath his freckles.

"Yeah, we should've called for backup. Too late now," said Alphard in a low voice. Weasley licked his lips; Alphard could see him shifting into business mode.

"I can handle it," Weasley replied. Alphard grinned, shaking his head, then continued on. "I know you think I'm stupid—"

"—You think I'm evil, so, fair trade," Alphard shot back over his shoulder. "I thought you said you could handle this? Focus."

"You beat my best friend to a bloody pulp, mate. And you look just like Bellatrix Lestrange, who did Merlin knows what to the love of my life."

"'Merlin-knows-what'? Isn't that the kind of thing you ought to know about the 'love of your life'?" Alphard asked skeptically.

"Have you even  _met_  Hermione? Like hell she'd tell me what happened that day at Malfoy Manor. But Bellatrix did something, okay?"

"I've been told I look a bit more like Sirius Black, actually," said Alphard lightly, continuing on ahead of Weasley. There was no moon.  _Potter, where did you go?_ He swung his lit wand tip around, scanning the area for any sign of Potter.

"Yeah, you do, but—"

"—but you see what you want to see, which is an evil Malfoy relative hell-bent on ruining your life," exploded Alphard furiously. His patience was growing thin. "Seriously, Weasley—you came asking for help and now you're just throwing insults at me. Any self-respecting man wouldn't take this for very long." He swung round to face him, feeling his face flushing.  _There it goes…_ the temper was like a shorting fuse; he had a strikingly limited amount of time before he lost it. "All I do is show patience while you lot throw insult after insult at me; all of which are entirely unwarranted," he said in a low, scathing voice. Weasley took a step back.

"Black—"

"—No, listen, you spineless wimp." He lunged forward, gripping the front of Weasley's coat, their breaths clouding in the air between them and mingling. "I'm fucking tired of this, alright? I have done  _nothing_  wrong. You don't know me. You know nothing about me— _nothing_. I never even  _met_ Bellatrix, or—or Sirius. I never met any of my family." Shamefully, his voice broke. "I wasn't even raised by a wizarding family. So you can take your fucking prejudice and—"

"—Black—"

"—shove it up your freckly a—"

"— _Black!_  Look over there."

Alphard released Weasley, his blood pounding thickly in his ears, the world spinning, and looked round slowly to where Weasley was pointing a shaking finger.

There was a blackened mass in the snow, bending the bramble.

* * *

Hermione and Nott returned to the Ministry, with Nott scampering after Hermione as she marched towards the Auror department. There was a significant amount of activity and thus no one noticed Hermione and Nott steaming on towards the dueling room, where Harry and Alphard had had their infamous duel. The dueling room was empty and had been cleaned since Harry and Alphard's duel; there remained no signs of the bloodiness of that duel.

"Here? Now? Granger, I apologize, but you have evidently lost your mind," Nott said, panting, when Hermione finally turned to face him again, their coats still on, her wand raised. "You are in no condition to duel—not with me, not with a non-magical toddler," he added, his eyes roving over her appearance.

"Please," she goaded, shaking her wand at him. "I need to do  _something_."

"You need to sleep," Nott retorted, walking to her and reaching to take her wand. Hermione snatched it out of his reach, fuming at the implied condescension.  _Oh, you'll just take my wand and make me sleep, because of course, you know what's best for me._

"Duel me. You promised."

"Why in the name of Slytherin should I duel you? You are unwell." He rolled his eyes when Hermione backed away, brandishing her wand. "Fine. On your head be it," he muttered disgustedly, shrugging off his cloak and drawing his wand.

Before Hermione could react, Nott had disarmed her. Her wand flew out of her hand and clattered away. "There you have it. A duel. Now, for Merlin's sake, Granger, let me put you to bed."

"No! Harry and Erica are both out there somewhere because I failed them," Hermione countered desperately, as she clumsily grappled for her wand. Nott sighed.

"You cannot solve anything this way," he warned her. "It takes years to master the art of dueling, even for those with a natural propensity for it."

The immovable object was meeting the unstoppable force. Hermione fired a Hex at Nott and he let out another sigh before casually blocking it. "You are doing it incorrectly," he finally said, walking to her. "Your stance is weak and even without Legilimency I can see in your eyes exactly what your next move will be."

Nott hesitated, and then began adjusting her stance. Had she been in her right mind, she would have found the contact awkward. His hand lingered at her waist as he pressed his other hand to her shoulder, forcing her to straighten her posture. "Beginners tend to instinctively make themselves smaller under the very incorrect assumption that doing so will make them less likely to be hit by a Hex," Nott explained. "Widen your stance. Drop your shoulders."

Hermione did as he insisted. Nott crossed his arms and circled her. "You are not sturdy in frame so you will need to use body mechanics to create stability. It appears your center of gravity is a little higher than ideal for your frame—for dueling, of course," he added quickly, twin blotches of color appearing on his cheeks, "—so you need to keep your stance wider-set."

* * *

The heat which had fueled his anger seeped from him like bleeding ink; Alphard once again felt the biting cold.

"Called it," he said softly, his belly giving a sickening lurch. "Wands out," he cast back at Weasley, before beginning to slink over to the form, holding his breath.

"It's not moving, Black," said Weasley in a strangled voice, his horror rising.

Guilt shot through Alphard.  _He was scared about his friend,_ he reminded himself. With heavy limbs he made his way through the bramble towards the black mass, clearing his mind with acuity. He had always been able to do it when he needed to; the ability didn't fail him now, either.

"Stay back, Weasley," he ordered without looking back. "I'll let you know if it's alright," he added, to let him know he wasn't insulting his abilities.

The limbs were akimbo; the legs were at odd angles. A dark stain marred the snow beneath the body; the exposed hands and face were almost blue.

Without the glasses, without the bright green eyes, Potter was almost unrecognizable. He lay there in the snow, his forehead weeping blood from a crude carving in his skin, over the lightning-bolt scar.

Alphard knelt down and siphoned away the blood. The clear focus he'd had before was lost; billowing chaos clouded his mind; his mouth seemed to be filled with cotton. "Don't come any closer, Weasley," he said thickly.

A spiral with a slash through it had been carved into Potter's forehead.

* * *

Hermione adjusted her feet, then looked to Nott for approval. He stepped back a few paces. "Very good. Now, I'm—" he halted as they heard the door to this portion of the offices open, then close, though it was separate from them by a narrow hall, so they could not see who had entered. Whoever it was went into the observation room. "—anyway, I will use  _expelliarmus_ , and I want you to block it using  _protego._  Do not move your feet or try to simply dodge it. As I do this, I also would like you to carefully observe my facial expressions and body language."

She drew in a deep breath, mentally steeling herself, and watched as Nott fluidly shifted into a dueling stance with surprising agility and grace. "I am leaning back—most people will lean back when using a defensive spell," he explained as he swiped his wand in front of him, "and most people will also use defensive motions with their wand when using a protective or defensive spell."

He was right—she found herself struggling to not lean back as she nonverbally cast _protego._  Nott's spell bounced off the magical shield and dissipated, as Nott shifted back to a normal stance.

"What am I usually doing wrong, though?" she pestered.

"You employ an unstable stance, your facial expressions and body language give away what type of spell you will use, and you use easily blocked or dodged spells, with too much time in between casting them," Nott summed up. "You would be best suited to learning unusual spells that afford you more time in between moves. The best duelers have a mental shortlist of spells to draw on, so they do not have to spend much time considering them, and they usually are agile enough to physically dodge spells so they do not waste time and energy on protective spells." He frowned, looking thoughtful. "Think of five unusual spells that you could use on me—I am certain you could produce many, many more, but for now, limit it to five—and decide on an order, and we will try a short duel."

Hermione closed her eyes, swaying on her feet slightly, as she considered some of the lesser known spells she could use.

"Ready," she said, opening her eyes. She watched Nott seem to melt into a fighting stance, and tried to mirror him. She hastily adjusted her feet. "How is this?"

"Your quick learning never fails to impress," Nott said with a nod. "Ready? Go."

She fired a spell that would make his eyebrows grow long over his eyes, which clashed mid-air with the Hex he had sent her. "Don't watch it—you're wasting time," he said, raising his voice, as Hermione barely dodged the next Hex. She scrambled to the side, sliding on the floor slightly, and slashed her wand through the air. Her heart was pounding already but to her disappointment, Nott easily swiped aside the Hex. She fired another at him immediately, and Nott looked almost surprised as he barely ducked in time. She sent another one—a Tickle charm—and this time it hit him.

Convulsing and flushing, Nott cast the counter-charm with a terse swipe of his wand before casting a Hex that hit her, causing her knees to buckle reflexively as though someone had kicked the back of her legs. As she went down, Hermione blindly fired another Tickling Charm, which took Nott by surprise and hit him once more.

She was so focused that she'd not heard the approaching footsteps.

"What do you want, Weasley?" Nott sounded irritated. Hermione's head shot up to see Ron, pale and shaky-looking, standing before them. His shoes and jeans were drenched from snow and the front of his coat was soaked with a black, shiny stain—blood.

"None of your business, Nott," snapped Ron. "Hermione, you—you should come with me," he sighed, a pleading look in his eyes.

In that moment she knew.  _Harry's dead._ Her hands were shaking worse than ever now. Ron intuitively knelt down and helped her rise to her feet. She couldn't breathe. "Come on, Hermione," he murmured gently, leading her away.

"N-no," she stammered, a rushing sound filling her ears. "He-he's not—" she broke roughly from Ron's hold. "Tell me—just tell me—" she choked out, pointing her wand at Ron. He sighed.

"Harry's alive, but it's not good." He looked away. "Black and I went looking for him."

She felt useless. While Ron and Alphard had gone out and looked for Harry—been doing something  _useful_ —she'd been play-dueling with Nott. "We found him in the woods near Malfoy Manor," Ron continued, gently leading her down the hall again. "He was laying in the snow. He'd been attacked—badly. He was almost frozen to death. There's something else," he added slowly, reluctantly.

"Something else? What?"

"We found something c-carved into his forehead. Where his scar is—was." Ron swallowed. "Black said you'd recognize it."

_The anastasis._

* * *

Harry was in St Mungo's, in a private ward, being patched up by Healers and examined by Kingsley. When Hermione and Ron arrived, Alphard was pacing the hall outside the ward, and Ginny was curled in one of the seats in the waiting room, covered in one of Harry's cloaks, asleep, with Molly holding her and stroking her hair. Arthur and George were there as well, and Furness appeared to be in a vicious argument with Whelkes.

"Hermione," sighed Molly when she saw her. Hermione gave a limp wave and went round the corner, breaking away from Ron who went to sit with Molly and Ginny.

"You found him," Hermione said hollowly, when she met Alphard's eyes. The seclusion of the hall was a relief; she found the Weasleys' presence oppressive. She felt at fault for Harry's current state, in ways she could not even quite connect.

"With Weasley, yeah," said Alphard, raking a hand through his tangled, wild hair. "He had the symbol in his forehead. He should've been dead—out in the cold that long, lost all that blood—so someone wanted him to be found."

"Must be some sort of sign to us from Amundsen," said Hermione, wrapping her arms round herself and leaning against the wall. She sank to the floor and stared at the tiles, and heard Alphard do the same and sit by her. She was hit with a burst of his clean, unique scent, layered under the stench of blood.  _They must've carried him,_ she thought as she recalled the blood soaking Ron's front.

"Maybe," conceded Alphard slowly. He sounded unconvinced. "Or there's some piece we're missing—something big."

"We're missing all the pieces, I think," Hermione snarked.

For a long time they sat in silence, each lost in their thoughts.

"I should've gone back to Erica first, today." Alphard's voice was quiet but heavier than she'd ever heard it.

"Why didn't you?"

"I heard you screaming."

His words hung in the air between them. "I've always been impulsive," he added with a low laugh.

"It's instinct—to try to save the person you know first," Hermione replied.

"I guess. But it's still my fault."

"I left because I heard you screaming," she pointed out.

She heard Alphard laugh again.

"You know," he began slowly, "I reckon Weasley's still in love with you."

"Not love," she corrected, shaking her head. "We've always had a weird possessiveness about each other, but it's not love."

"What is love if it's not 'weird possessiveness'?" He sounded amused. Hermione brought her knees to her chest and rested her chin on them. She thought of Harry, of how his eyes had looked just the night before.

"I really don't know," she concluded softly. "I'm not sure anyone really does know."

"But you know whatever you and Weasley have got isn't it," he confirmed.

"Exactly."

"Why not?"

"What's it to you?" she asked, glancing at him. He half-smiled.

"I really haven't got a clue," he admitted.

It was strange, to have this calm between them here, now, of all moments. Hermione was struck by the peace she felt, in spite of how everything was going wrong.  _I should be with Ron, or comforting Ginny,_ she thought, but it brought her little emotion.  _This is where I need to be,_ she realized.

"Hannah said that whoever did my stitches did a good job," she remarked, after a long time.

"Hannah?" Alphard's voice was heavy with sleep.

"Hannah Abbot. She's a Healer here. I went to school with her."

"I've had a lot of practice," he said wryly.

"Tell me one fact about yourself," she pressed suddenly, looking at him again. He looked on the verge of sleep. He yawned widely. "Something no one else knows; something personal; something inconsequential."

"What's it to you?" he mimicked sleepily. He shot her a grin.

"I want to know you. More and more I'm realizing I don't know you, at all."

"Hmm." He mopped his face as though to try and pull himself together, try and pull himself away from sleep. "Something no one else knows," he mulled over. "I played Seeker at Durmstrang. No one here knows that," he finally offered. "Your turn."

"That's not personal," she argued. "But I'll take it if that's all you'll give."

"How unlike you, to settle," he said sardonically. Hermione let out a laugh that she wouldn't have thought she had in her, at this point.

"What do you think of, when you cast a Patronus?" she pressed, thinking of the first mission they had gone on together, and of the smile he'd had as he'd cast a Patronus.

"My first Quidditch game."

"That's like Harry," she realized. "He said he usually thought of the first time he got to fly on a broomstick."

Exhaustion overtook them both. They waited there in the hall well into the night; Hermione awoke with a start in the small hours of the morning, with a painful crick in her neck and her backbone throbbing from sitting for so many hours on a hard floor. She had slumped to the side in her sleep and had been leaning against Alphard. For a long, shameful moment, she didn't want to pull away.

She had almost forgotten what it felt like, to sleep against someone else's form. Alphard was still soundly asleep, his even breathing tickling her hair and ghosting across her forehead. His scent clung to her skin. She held her place, unwilling to move, as she pondered what had awoken her. She looked up to the door to Harry's room to see that Kingsley had exited, and was standing there, watching her. He looked ashen.

"We got rid of most of it," he said now without preamble, stepping towards her. Hermione jolted away from Alphard shamefully, her cheeks flushing. Alphard slumped backwards against the wall, mumbling something. "Calm down, Granger," he said gently, as Hermione rose to her feet.

"Got rid of most of…?" she whispered, stepping towards Kingsley as she glanced at Alphard again. He was deeply asleep.

"The symbol," said Kingsley with a grimace. "The Healers are going to try and wake him up in a few hours; right now they're letting him rest. His body was put through a hell of a lot and we're still not sure…"

"…Not sure of what?"

"Whether he would live through waking up," finished Kingsley grimly. He shook his head and massaged his temples. "Someone had it in for him, Granger. It's lucky Black and Weasley found him, even if it is against orders." Kingsley let out a sigh, then nodded to Alphard. "Make sure he gets some rest. No one will be allowed to see Potter any time soon, and we will send you updates if anything changes. We already sent the Weasleys home."

"You're telling me I have to leave," Hermione confirmed. Kingsley's mouth twisted.

"I'm telling you that that one is exhausted and needs to recover," he said significantly, nodding at Alphard again. "Take care of him."

Kingsley left Hermione standing there, staring down at Alphard's slumped, sleeping form. She knelt down beside him and considered touching his shoulder. Her hand hovered over his shoulder, but she couldn't do it. She found herself melting back to his side, against his lean form, feeling the weight of his sleeping body as he instinctively curved against her. She felt them sliding down together, until they were laying on their sides, on the hard cold floor. She pulled his arm over her, felt him let out a sigh in his sleep, and curve tighter against her back.

There was nothing wrong with wanting to be close to someone, she reasoned.

There was nothing wrong with missing the feeling of being held, she told herself.

And, as long as she woke in time to avoid Kingsley discovering they'd never left, she could simply pretend it was all an accident and that she was innocent.

She couldn't tolerate being alone right now, she insisted inwardly. That was all. She just wanted human comfort. It was a moment of weakness, and as long as it didn't hurt anyone, it was okay to have moments of weakness.

It had nothing to do with how it had felt to realize his scent clung to her skin, or how it had felt to open her eyes and see him there.


	9. Starlight

Author's note: Warning: This chapter contains material that some may find upsetting.

* * *

Starlight

* * *

Alphard awoke to pain and darkness. With a groan, he struggled to free himself as some more alert part of his mind processed that his limbs were tangled with someone else's, and that he was lying on a hard, cold floor. He inhaled deeply, aware that he was curled against someone warm and soft...

"What..."

It was Granger's sleepy voice. Alphard shot back as though galvanized, as he and Granger regarded each other, bleary-eyed, in the dim lighting of the hall. He realized now that he'd never left St Mungo's, and they were still outside of Potter's room.

Oh, and that they'd been spooning.

"Oh, Merlin," Granger moaned, mopping her face. "What time is it?" Her wandlight flickered in the darkness as she read her watch face.

Had they fallen asleep on top of each other? How had that happened? His face burned with the awkwardness of it and he was grateful that they were mostly in darkness. "Early. Only three thirty." Granger's voice was clearer now.

"Granger—"

"Forget about it, Alphard. I have no idea how  _that_  happened and it's better put behind us," Granger snapped, looking away as she clumsily got to her feet and stumbled a bit. "Oh Merlin, my legs fell asleep."

Alphard rose up as well and self-consciously raked a hand through his hand and slyly checked his breath. "Ugh, Kingsley told me to take care of you—and here I go leaving you on the floor of St Mungo's," she said wryly, shaking her head. "Come on—to bed with you."

"Why me? I'm not the one—"

"Alphard, you don't want to argue with me right now," said Granger, waving her wand threateningly in his face. "I'm escorting you to your flat, and seeing to it that you're fed and put to bed. You need rest."

"Not t-tired," Alphard said, unconvincingly stammering in the midst of a yawn. He followed Granger down the hall. "I am hungry, though. Weasley interrupted me before I could eat."

They left St Mungo's for the frosty early morning air. It was dark and perhaps the quietest hour of the night. A ways down the street, Alphard spotted an all-night café. "Let's eat there. I've nothing in my flat and I don't feel like cooking."

"Sounds good to me," Granger yawned. They walked along the street in silence. Just barely awake, the cold air felt more invasive, like it was in their bones, and the world seemed eerie and unfamiliar. Alphard held the door for Granger, noting that she had imprints on her cheek that looked like the snaps on the cuffs of his jacket—she'd had her cheek on his arm, apparently. He looked skyward, as if to a higher power, before following her inside.

The fluorescent lights buzzed. Somewhere in the back of the café, a tinny radio was playing Beatles hits. "All My Loving" ended as "I Wanna Hold Your Hand" started up, and Granger grabbed them a booth furthest from the counter. A sulky woman in a Mickey Mouse jumper snapped up laminated menus and sauntered to them as Alphard and Granger shrugged off their jackets.

"Coffee?"

"No—no caffeine," Granger interrupted, snatching away Alphard's mug from the waitress. "Herbal tea for both of us, thanks," she said to the waitress with a too-wide grin.

"I don't  _do_  tea," Alphard snarked as the waitress slunk back to the counter. Granger rolled her eyes.

"You need sleep, Alphard. We both do."

She let out a sigh and slumped in her seat, staring at a point that Alphard could not see. She looked older, more defeated. A hollow feeling was eating away at him. He was going numb again. That emptiness, worse than homesickness, was turning him inside out.

"Ever feel like you're disappearing?" he blurted out. Granger's eyes became alert as she focused on him again.

"You're not disappearing," she said firmly.

"I know that," he snapped. He looked away, feeling his face flush. Was he ashamed? Embarrassed? Angry? Afraid? He couldn't name the emotion. All he knew was that he disliked it and he wanted it to end.

"…But I do feel that way. Lately, a lot," said Granger sardonically now, letting out a rather gloomy laugh. She toyed with the sugar packets and opened her mouth, about to speak, but the waitress had returned with two mugs.

"Know what yeh want, then?"

"Two full English breakfasts, thanks," said Granger, speedily handing the waitress the menus. She turned to Alphard. "And you're not leaving until you eat the whole thing."

"I can't sleep on a full stomach."

"You can't sleep on an empty one, either."

"Why the sudden mothering? I already told you that I don't need a mother," Alphard countered in a low voice, as the waitress walked away.

"I do it when I'm sad, and it helps, so just bloody let me," she hissed.

"…Fair enough."

They fell silent again. Alphard was stunned that Granger wasn't grilling him about finding Potter, but he supposed she was too lost inside to even think of it. Better to distract her, he realized. "So… now we can say we slept together," he posited lightly, leaning forward and smirking at her. She snorted.

"Oh, god, let's pretend that didn't happen," she groaned, covering her face with her hands. Alphard chuckled.

"Don't be ashamed. Was it as good for you as it was for me? I'll probably be sore for a week," he added. She let out a true laugh at that.

"Oh, yes, I rarely do that sort of thing in bed. It was so…hard. …And cold."

Hermione met Alphard's eyes and watched him laugh again, shaking his head. He too began fidgeting with a sugar packet, and she watched his hands, the skin smooth and tan save for some thin white scars, the nails short and clean.  _He does have nice hands,_ she ceded inwardly, as though she'd been in some sort of argument about it. Unbidden, the thought of those nice hands against her skin rose up in her mind, wafting and sinuous as smoke. And yet, amid that dark but pleasant thought—the vision of Harry— _oh god._

"Ever feel like your mind isn't safe, and your life isn't safe, so you can't actually  _exist_  anywhere?"

"Your mind's safe," said Alphard with a sly half-grin. Hermione scowled at him in spite of her breath being taken away by the tenderness in his eyes. They held the gaze for a beat too long. Goosebumps prickled along her skin as she thought of how it had felt to be curled against him. She had to look down.

"It's not. I can't—"

"It is."

His voice was surprisingly gentle—she looked up and met his eyes once more. It felt like there was an ever-swelling balloon in her chest that just might burst.  _I'm so lonely that it hurts—that's why I want him,_ she told herself.  _He's a friend and he's attractive, and I need a friend, and I want romance. And I don't want to think of Harry. I never want to think about Harry. Not how he doesn't want me, not how he always seems to be about to die—I'm inventing this attraction to spare myself from pain._

Yet the only thing she could focus on was:  _I'm so lonely that it hurts._ "Your mind is safe. It can't hurt you," he reinforced, leaning in now, his voice lowering. "It feels like it, but it can't really." The humor and wisdom in his voice recalled Sirius—that sly sagacity, which told you he had  _lived_  through the things he was telling you about.

The waitress came with their plates then, eying them suspiciously. Hermione wondered if she thought they were a couple, or if it was so obvious that they weren't, based on the disparity in their physical appearances alone.

They each straightened in their seat and allowed her to set the plates down, thanked her, and then began eating. "Ah. This song," Alphard said, after swallowing a bite of kipper, as he pointed towards the ceiling, presumably towards the stereo speakers. "Hey Jude" was playing. "My mum used to sing this to me."

It was a confession, she belatedly realized.  _He has to be telling me his mum was Muggle._ Her heart began to race. Hermione bit into her eggs to buy herself time to figure out how to respond in a way that wouldn't shut him off completely.

"Did she have a nice voice?"

"Nice enough. I mean, she was my mum," he mused.

"And  _your_  mum is guaranteed to have a nice singing voice?"

"Well, we're basically programmed to like the sound of our mother's voice, right?"

"I suppose," Hermione conceded. "What about your dad?"

She could see it in his eyes, the moment he closed off. She was hit with a sense of déjà vu as she realized it was precisely the same look Sirius had gotten so often, especially towards the end. A door had been slammed shut in her face. His anger and bitterness acted as a thick, opaque shield, sliding into place before she had found a way in. "His singing voice, I mean," she clarified quickly, though she knew it was futile. It was like beating her fists against the door, yelling, uselessly.

Alphard looked away, began eating more quickly.

"Dunno. Never heard it."

Her heart lifted a little. It wasn't his usual fight-then-flight response to personal questions. He wasn't fighting, and he wasn't running away, either—he was just closing off. That had to be a step in the right direction, she told herself.

"I have an awful singing voice," she admitted with a sigh. "I mean, really. Just awful."

"Isn't there some nice book you could consult on the matter?"

She looked up hopefully. He was teasing her. She laughed and rolled her eyes at him.

They finished their meal, and when Hermione went to pay her share, Alphard wordlessly paid instead.

"I'm really very against that archaic tradition of—"

"It's a thank you," he interjected, as they shuffled out of the booth and to the door. He held the door again for her, smirking at her scowl. The last notes of the Beatles followed them out the door, into the pre-dawn flurries.

* * *

Alphard's eyelids were heavy with sleepiness. He sank further into his pillows, relishing the anticipated blissful ignorance of sleep, when he heard a knock at his door. Feeling sluggish and half-awake, like he had had far too much to drink, he stumbled out of bed. He instinctively knew it was Daphne, and, sure enough, when he opened his door, there she was.

"Daph, it's nearly five in the morning," he groaned, mopping his face. She pushed her way inside his flat, her cloak wrapped round her tightly. When he shut the door and looked at her again, there were tears in her eyes.

"S-sorry," she gasped with a sob. "I-it's just Astoria, and I  _can't_ anymore. It's too horrible," she whispered, melting into Alphard's confused embrace. "Her nightmares. She wakes up screaming  _his_  name, and I can't do it anymore. I can't comfort her. I don't know what to  _say_  to her."

"Whose name?"

He felt her shaking her head into his chest, her slender form trembling with increasing sobs.

"Can we just go to bed, please," she pleaded, her voice muffled by his shirt.

They went to his bedroom and Alphard rummaged through his drawers for a clean shirt she could wear to sleep in. He didn't have any clean ones left that he was willing to risk sacrificing—girls  _never_  seemed to return shirts—so he pulled off his own. Daphne went to the bathroom and he could hear her attempting to wash her face and pull herself together.

"Daph, here's a shirt," he said through the door, knocking on it. She opened the door a crack, reached out, took the shirt, and shut the door again. Feeling bewildered and utterly lost, Alphard sat on the edge of his bed. His eyelids were still impossibly heavy. All he wanted was sleep. Granger's Sleeping Draught had been stronger than she had thought, and he felt heavy and full and lethargic from the food.

The door opened and Daphne flicked off the light. The shirt barely brushed the tops of her thighs, and, in any other circumstances, he would have been far too excited by the sight to be able to sleep. Daphne crawled into bed next to him and immediately pulled him tight against her, burying her face in his chest, wrapping her arms and legs round him tightly.

"Thanks," she mumbled, snuggling closer.

It was far too soon for this sort of emotional intimacy, he reflected dimly, sinking into sleep, as he lay there, still, while Daphne continued to cry into his chest. He should have been running for the hills. But this was so much easier.

* * *

After sleeping well into the next afternoon, Hermione awoke and went straight to St Mungo's to check on Harry. Ginny was in the waiting room, looking pale. When she saw Hermione, she straightened.

"Any word?" Hermione asked as she sat down next to Ginny. Ginny shook her head mutely; she looked terrible. Ginny had never been one for crying but now her eyes were puffy and swollen.

"I've decided Harry and I won't be having any children," she announced after a moment. "It's agony enough for me every time he gets attacked like this."

"Ginny," Hermione sighed, placing an arm around her petite friend. Ginny was biting her lip, her eyes watering.

"If he hadn't gone looking, he might've never got attacked, but then, if he hadn't gone looking, he wouldn't be the person I love," she said thickly.

_I know._ She knew exactly how Ginny felt. "Or maybe," Ginny reasoned, swallowing back her tears, her voice marginally clearer, "if he'd thought to bring _you_ , he'd be fine."

They laughed together, but Hermione's belly gave a peculiar lurch as she reflected on Ginny's words. Harry had always relied on her to escape death; he'd always needed her.

Obviously that hadn't changed.

_Potter needs you. Trust me, he does._ It seemed like ages ago that Alphard had said this. Alphard had pierced her in that moment, and in so many others, and recalling it was galvanizing, now. Her hands were trembling suddenly so she fisted them. He'd confided in her, demanded  _more_  of her, and it was all for a reason.

She was better than this.

She was so much more than the sidekick, the girl  _he_  hadn't chosen. She hadn't chosen Harry either, had she? In the moment of truth, she'd walked away. And she had walked away for a reason. And she was ashamed that she had lost sight of that.

Hermione rose to her feet, relinquishing Ginny.

"I've got to go. I've got to figure this out," she explained briskly. A strange feeling—that same blossoming anticipation that seemed to fill her any time she met Alphard's eyes—was filling her now. She looked to Harry's door once more, then drew in a deep breath. "I'll be back," she shot over her shoulder to Ginny, who was grinning at her through her tears.

_She really is beautiful,_  Hermione reflected, a sort of acceptance washing over her, before she continued on.  _And she really does deserve every bit of happiness she ever gets._

… _And I do, too._

* * *

Alphard woke up in a fog, his head throbbing from the Sleeping Draught and his stomach squirming uncomfortably from the greasy food he had consumed at the diner. Daphne was sprawled on top of him, sound asleep.

There was a pounding on his door. Alphard groaned and shifted Daphne off of him; she was wearing his shirt and her eyes were puffy from crying. Mumbling and stumbling, he made his way to the door, and peered through it.

Granger was standing outside, looking surprisingly peppy. Scowling, Alphard rubbed his eyes as he opened the door.

Hermione tried not to balk at Alphard's shirtlessness, or the fact that he actually looked good after eating diner food and then taking a Sleeping Draught. There was something vulnerable and cuddly about him. Allowing herself a moment of mild resentment, she briskly entered his flat.

"Granger—"

"We've got to redouble our efforts. That was a message from Amundsen, clearly," she said without preamble, looking round his flat. It was, as expected, tidy to a fault. However, there was a faint hint of—"Is there a  _woman_  here?" Hermione asked incredulously, sniffing the air for more of a heavy, clove-like perfume. Alphard groaned as the door to his bedroom opened.

It was Daphne Greengrass, puffy-eyed, messy-haired, wearing what was clearly Alphard's shirt—so  _that_  was where it had gone—and nothing else. Hermione whirled away from her, her face flushing, under the guise of giving Daphne some "privacy."

"Hermione Granger."

Hermione glanced over her shoulder. Daphne rolled her eyes. "Yes, I'm not wearing pants. For fuck's sake, you're just as much of a prude as you always were."

"Watch it, Daph."

Hermione looked to Alphard in surprise, but he was looking warningly at Daphne, who was apparently scandalized at being scolded by Alphard. She straightened up a bit and looked back to Hermione.

"Here on business?"

"No, I thought Black and I might braid each other's hair and talk about boys," she snapped, her face growing hotter. "Of course I'm here on business. The Ministry is in an uproar at the moment." Daphne arched a brow, then snorted.

"Right. Well, I'll leave you to it," she said loftily. Hermione didn't miss the look she shot Alphard, before turning on her heel and sauntering back to Alphard's bedroom. "Come back when you're done, Alphard," she called, her voice sultry, before she shut the door.

Alphard and Hermione looked everywhere but at each other.

"Next time, I'll owl before I drop in," Hermione said ruefully after a moment. She thought of how she had curved herself against Alphard's body just hours earlier, and shame at herself blossomed.  _What a pathetic moment that was._

"No need." Alphard sounded surprisingly irritated. "Hold on—let me just take care of something," he added crossly, before stalking to the bedroom.

Feeling awkward and something akin to homesickness, Hermione poked round Alphard's flat. It wasn't snooping if he knew she was here, right?

His flat was impersonal; so neat it was almost sterile. Hermione wandered about, lost in thought. They had to find Erica. She couldn't help but be convinced that Amundsen must have left them  _something_ ; he liked to leave a trail of breadcrumbs, to tantalize and taunt. Had Harry been the taunt? Was Malfoy Manor the likeliest place to start? …And why did she have the growing hunch that Malfoy's death was linked to Amundsen?

But she was shaken from her thoughts when she saw something she had seen so many times at Harry's home—Grimmauld Place—that she had nearly not realized it didn't belong here at all. It was lying on the bookshelf, behind a framed award for Quidditch from Durmstrang.

It was a photograph of the original Order—with Harry's mum and dad…and, more notably, Sirius, front and center. The edges of the photograph were curling in. Sirius, young and handsome, his hair a bit grown out here—though nothing like how it would be thirteen years after this photograph, when he escaped from Azkaban—was throwing his head back, laughing at something wicked James must have said.

Why would Alphard have this photograph?

And then it all fell into place.

_Oh my god._

* * *

"How dare you." Alphard had slammed the door shut; Daphne had her back to him and was sulking by the window. "I have a lot of respect for Granger. She is a colleague of mine and I won't—"

"Shut up." Daphne's voice was low, caustic. She turned to face him, silhouetted by the late afternoon winter light. "Just shut up, okay?"

"You just insulted my coworker in  _my home_. I don't exactly feel pressured to do what you say," he shot back, feeling his face flush. "What the hell is your problem?"

And now she was crying again. Alphard threw his hands up in the air. "I give up. Look, we're on a major case right now. I haven't got time for this."

"Why don't you care about me?" Daphne's voice was watery. "I came in crying and you didn't even wonder why."

"I asked you, and you didn't tell me. You insisted we just go to sleep." Alphard stalked to his closet, feeling unreasonably mad. "If you're not going to tell me, do you expect me to just wheedle it out of you?"

"Astoria was raped."

Alphard froze in the middle of reaching for a shirt as his vision was momentarily blinded.

"What? Last night?" He whirled around to face her trembling form. Daphne shook her head mutely.

"A long time ago. But she's still—still—" she couldn't wrench the words out. Alphard's stomach lurched even as his mind was racing, putting pieces together. "It's all she thinks about. So it's all  _I_ think about. It's my life. I can't do it anymore. I can't wake up to her screaming, can't hold her through the night—"

Alphard dropped the shirt and dashed to Daphne, grasping her arms.

"Who? Who did it?"

"It doesn't matt—"

"It matters  _very much._ Tell me, Daph," he pressed, shaking her. "I'm with the Ministry, okay? We can get justice for this."

"Get off of me!"

An electric shock ran through him; Daphne must have left her wand on the windowsill and retrieved it. Alphard stumbled back, more out of surprise than pain. Daphne's hair was wild as she pointed her wand at him. "You don't want justice. This is just some stupid case of yours," she choked accusingly.

"I hate to break it to you, but those 'stupid cases' of mine are all about justice," Alphard shot back, his face and neck growing hot. "If this person raped Astoria, the likelihood that he will hurt someone else is extremely high."

"Not really." She dropped her wand. Alphard's heart and mind were racing.  _It's Malfoy. Malfoy raped her. I_ knew _it._

"Because he's already dead," Alphard concluded. "Someone already got justice for what happened to Astoria…"  _It was Zabini, wasn't it? But then—_

"No. No one got justice for anything," Daphne choked. She hugged herself, looking down. "I'm tired of talking about this."

"And yet you were just shaming me for not prying further about it," bristled Alphard, turning away from Daphne. "This is fucking ridiculous. If you want to be mad at me, be mad. I'll help when you're ready to let me but I'm not going to play this stupid game." He grabbed his shirt and yanked it over his head. He could only see red. He was furious.

"Do you not care at all?"

"I barely know you," he snapped. "We've fucked what—twice? Had a couple dates?"

He looked back at her and then was burning with shame. She looked truly hurt. What had he done? He looked away again. "I mean, I care, of course," he added in a low voice. "But I don't know how to help you if you won't let me."

"Why not try hugging me? Telling me it'll be alright? I need you."

There it was. Every instinct, every fiber of his being, was repelled by that phrase.  _I need you._

"You don't need me. I promise." He went to the bathroom and brushed his teeth. He'd forgotten until now, but now that he remembered it, he felt uneasy leaving Granger loose in his flat. He didn't know how much of this she could hear, and he had the niggling feeling that he was forgetting something.

He heard Daphne choke out another sob and he gripped the sides of the sink, fuming. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, his eyes roving over his face—a handsome face, a face that had afforded him many opportunities, yet taken so much away from him. It wasn't really his face, anyway—it had belonged to someone else before him, and he was a prisoner to it, a ghost to those who had known Sirius Black.

He was slipping again—and he knew he had to get a better grip before he lost hold completely.

He stepped out of the bathroom. Daphne was sitting on his bed, still crying. Grimacing, he sat down next to her, and set an arm around her. "You don't need me because you're strong." He tightened his hold, but she squirmed away, refusing to look at him. Alphard rose to his feet. "I'm going to go; you can stay here if you like. I'm not sure when I'll be back."

Daphne said nothing. A heaviness settled over him as Alphard grabbed his jacket where he'd tossed it on his chair the night before, and left his bedroom.

Granger was staring resolutely out the window, looking far too intentionally innocent. When she heard the door click shut, she turned too quickly. Alphard arched his brow at her.  _Must have been listening…_

"What?" He waited for her to scold him for how he had handled the argument with Daphne, but her eyes were strangely teary. She blinked rapidly.

"Wh-what do you mean 'what'?" she countered, trying to discretely wipe her eyes. "We've got to get moving. Amundsen got to Harry fast," she said in a high, wavering voice, moving to the door. Alphard shook his head, more at himself.  _Girls are crazy._

He locked his flat and then they were in the hall. Alphard grabbed Granger's sleeve, and she turned to look back at him, but her eyes cast downward, never quite meeting his.

"Did you…" he began uncomfortably. For a moment her dark eyes flicked to his and his heart sank. "…hear me and Daphne?"

_I should have apologized._

"No," she replied, looking nonplussed suddenly. Alphard glanced at the door, then urged her to walk a bit.

"Her sister Astoria was raped," he began in a low voice. Granger's eyes widened.

"She just told you that now? As in,  _just now_?"

"Yeah, she had this outburst about it," Alphard explained as they trundled down the narrow staircase. "But she implied that there was no way they could get justice for it…"

"So you think Malfoy or Zabini did it," she concluded as they exploded into the sunlight, which was jarring after the darkness of the staircase. Alphard's head still felt fuzzy and thick round the edges; he didn't feel  _sharp_  like he usually did.

"Well, either Malfoy did it, and they can't get justice because he's dead, or someone else did, and Daphne feels like the only person who could exact justice would be Zabini…"

"That seems a little precarious to me," said Granger doubtfully. She let out a sigh, shaking her head. "It just seems odd that she brought it up now."

Alphard scowled in the direction of his building.

"I…" he wasn't sure of whether to divulge this bit of information.  _She thinks I'm falling for you._ He found himself starting to laugh as he looked back at Granger. She was raising her brows at him.

"Are you laughing at her? That's barbaric," she said acidly. Alphard shook his head, still chuckling.

"I'm laughing at the reason we had an argument at all," he explained, as they began walking. "She thinks—"

"Thinks what?"

"That I'm going to fall for you."

They stopped and faced each other. Alphard's laughter died away at the look he'd glimpsed on Granger's face, for a split second.

Like she'd seen a ghost.

Then it was gone and she was looking at him in utter disgust.

"And then she suddenly brought up her sister's trauma," she confirmed dubiously. Alphard let out a sigh, feeling off-balance. What had that look been about?

"She said I didn't care for her at all. She…burst into my flat last night after you'd left and was crying."

"And what happened?" They resumed walking again.

"Well, she didn't want to talk about it, so we went to sleep."

"And then…?" Granger prompted, sounded like she was losing patience.

"Well, then you came."

"Men are so stupid," Granger muttered darkly as they walked.

"Women are crazy—"

"Oh, don't pull that with me, Alphard," she blustered, shooting him a glare. "She needed you and you weren't  _there!_  Oh, Merlin, it must look terrible to her. Me bursting in—and you'd already spent most of the previous day  _and_  the night with me—"

"—Right, we did sleep together—" Alphard interjected cheekily, barely dodging her Hex.

"Take this seriously!"

They were standing before the wall to the Leaky Cauldron. They faced each other once more. Granger's gaze was heavy, penetrating. Her eyes roved over his face again, almost hungrily, like she was cataloguing every feature and taking stock and comparing it...

And then he realized.

_She knows._

"Do you …want to be with her?" she asked reluctantly. Alphard arched his brows.

"What's that got to do with anything?"

"She obviously wants to be with  _you_ , Alphard! She wanted you to be there for her, and the minute you felt like she didn't act 'properly' you stormed off! She must be feeling so alone, bearing that burden…she must be at the end of her rope!"

"Are we still talking about Daph?" Alphard prompted bluntly, at the way Granger was looking at him, her eyes welling up with tears. She was chewing her lip now.

"Let's go to Malfoy Manor," she said abruptly, turning away from him.

"…Fine."

Sirius' face was flashing before her eyes. Hermione led Alphard to the back of the Leaky Cauldron and they Apparated, separately, to Malfoy Manor.

The sunlight on the snow was blinding, and the wind was harsher here.

"So. You found his body in the woods?" She tried to keep her voice steady. She waited for Alphard to put up a fight, to question her sudden change in demeanor, but he followed seamlessly. It was a relief.

"This way." They began walking. The snow had frozen over on its top layer, so that the surface was hard and sharp and beneath it was fluffy, rendering their walk to a staccato of steps. It slowed them down considerably.

"How did you know to look in the woods?" she pressed, out of breath slightly as she followed Alphard to where they had discovered Harry.

"Sixth sense. I just knew it."

"...Or Amundsen left something for us," Hermione pondered darkly.

"Too right—but I can't think of what spell would be that subtle. And Weasley said Potter'd put loads of anti-detection spells on himself—that's why they couldn't just use a tracking spell."

"But  _why_  was he here?" Hermione asked as Alphard slowed to a stop ahead. He turned and absently blasted away bramble with his wand to make her walk easier. The stain upon the snowy bramble was nearly black; just as stars winked in her vision, she felt Alphard's firm grip on her upper arm steady her. "I'm fine," she promised shakily. "It's…a lot of blood."

"I can't believe he was still alive," agreed Alphard, shaking his head. "But there's nothing else here."

"Let's go back to the Manor—Harry must've gone there for a reason," she insisted, turning away hastily, eager to put the bloodied ground out of her mind. They hurried back to the Manor in tense silence, both furiously trying to think of what to do next. "This place has some dark memories," Hermione said in a sigh as they reached the front entrance.

"Weasley said you were tortured."

Alphard's voice was low, quiet. Hermione glanced back at him.  _Sirius._ She looked away.

"By Bellatrix, here, yes," she replied softly. "But it was a long time ago." She placed her hand on the front door and pushed it open.

"Weasley said you were dueling with Nott yesterday," Alphard remarked, as they entered. His voice bounced off the marble surfaces.

"Oh, that. I asked him to teach me how to duel."

Alphard sniggered so hard she thought his neck might've broken. "What?!" she demanded, turning from her inspection of the foyer. Alphard rolled his eyes.

"Come on, Granger—Nott? Seriously?"

"Ah, right—I forgot you've something against him."

"He makes dueling look like a cotillion," snarked Alphard, as he felt along the sides of a bookshelf. "Ever been upstairs?"

They each looked to the long, grand marble staircase. Hermione's belly gave a lurch. She didn't like being here.

"No," she said, looking away from it. "I doubt we'll find anything there."

For a long while they each searched separately, in silence. Even as Hermione searched, opening cabinets and feeling under chaises, she was filled with thoughts of Alphard. He had to be Sirius' son. Why else would he have that photograph? And when had he gotten it? Harry certainly never would have voluntarily  _given_  it to him.

"Granger." Alphard appeared into the doorway to the drawing room that Hermione was currently crouching in. "Look, I know these two things don't seem related, but Zabini was the last person to be seen leaving Malfoy Manor. And then Potter came here and searched, and now he's in critical condition, with the anastasis on his forehead… Don't you think we ought to look around Zabini's home?" He looked prepared to fight about this, but Hermione let out a sigh, sitting up from where she had been bent over.

"Yes, I think that might be more fruitful in the long run," she mused. "We don't know why Harry came here and until he wakes up and can tell us—"

"—If he can tell us—"

"—Then we're better served trying to find something  _new_ ," Hermione raised her voice tersely. She rose to her feet and brushed off her jeans.

"Grand. D'you know where he lived?" They walked out the front, both uneasy about leaving Malfoy Manor.

"Yes, I do," she sighed. She jumped slightly when Alphard took her hand.

"Let's go," he said impatiently.

"Right," she sputtered, and they turned on the spot.

* * *

Ginny awoke with a start. She'd dozed again, her eyelids swollen and heavy from the salty St Mungo's food and crying and lack of sleep. She'd never been one for crying but this situation seemed to merit it. She looked round, wondering what had awoken her.

A tall, handsome man with thick blonde hair and five o'clock shadow was walking past, leading a small girl of about five or six with blonde pigtails. At first, Ginny was distracted by how sweet an image it was: a young father with his beloved daughter. Her heart ached for Harry more than ever and it left her breathless with her pain. And yet…

There was something  _off_  about that little girl.

Ginny sat up now as the young man turned to flash a brilliant smile at her.

"Sorry to wake you," he apologized. The waiting area was otherwise empty—mum must have gone home to get some rest.  _More likely to make more sandwiches to make me eat,_ Ginny thought with an inward eye roll.

"Don't worry about it. Are you lost?" She sat up, straightening her top.

"No, just visiting an old friend," said the man now, looking somber.  _Bullshit,_  Ginny thought snidely. She despised men who thought she'd be so weakened by their good looks.

"You mean Harry?" she asked innocently, standing up now. The little girl was looking up at her silently. Goosebumps prickled Ginny's skin.

"We were colleagues," he said now, regretfully. "Peter Whelkes," he explained, holding out his free hand for her to shake. "You must be a Weasley."

Ginny shook his hand mutely.

The thing was, she knew Peter Whelkes quite well. He was one of Harry's favorite junior Aurors and was at their flat for dinner nearly weekly. He had a widow's peak and wore glasses, had dark brown hair, and was single and definitely had no daughter. In fact, she wasn't sure he was even twenty yet.

"Ginny Weasley," she confirmed after a moment of regarding this man archly. "Nice to meet you. Unfortunately, Harry's still out." She dropped his hand.  _I need to get to Hermione._

She didn't know who this man was, but she knew this could only mean trouble.

* * *

Zabini lived in Chelsea—one of the more posh Muggle areas—and his townhome had a small front yard with a wrought iron fence with a rosebush twining round it. It was easy to imagine it in summertime, with dreamy deep pink roses spilling out. It starkly contrasted with Tracey and Erica's hovel in Hackney.

"Not too shabby," remarked Alphard as they surveyed it. Hermione dropped Alphard's hand, and pushed the gate open. The front door had a brass knocker shaped like a serpent; Hermione chuckled to herself a little sadly before murmuring a few spells and opening the door.

Inside was dark and cold. She knew Whelkes and the other junior Aurors had been through Zabini's home since he had been taken in as a suspect, but there was little sign of upset. The ceilings were high, with painted white crown moulding, and the floors were a dark, highly polished, gleaming hardwood.

The place looked like something out of the chicest home decorating magazine, and boasted Zabini's simple yet sumptuous taste everywhere. Hermione thought of her hole-in-the-wall flat in Diagon Alley and felt a bit embarrassed at her own decorating skills.

"I'll take upstairs, you take downstairs," Hermione directed as she climbed the narrow stairs. The wall along the stairs was lined with modern-style portraits set in baroque-style frames; the contrast was so uniquely Zabini that it took her breath away.

Upstairs was an enormous marble bathroom and Zabini's home office. Hermione lingered in the lovely bathroom, musing at how Zabini owned more grooming products than even Ginny did, before pulling herself away to his home office.

This room had more modern, trendy décor—a glass desk with steel trestle-style legs sat underneath an expansive set of bay windows looking out over Chelsea. A Lucite chair had a sheepskin blanket tossed just so over it. No loose papers were sprawled over the desk. A glittering chandelier hung in the center of the room, catching the light streaming in.

She rummaged through a few files, trying to think of what she should even be looking for.  _Ugh, there's nothing here but Muggle bank statements and a monthly mobile bill,_  she grumbled inwardly, sitting back on her heels in front of a large box of bills and statements.

_Odd, though, that Zabini would keep his money in a Muggle bank and even_ have _a mobile,_ she thought, curiosity piqued as she pulled out one of the mobile bills. It looked like it was barely in use.  _Probably just had some Muggle friends,_ she reasoned, but she couldn't quite put it away. Where was the mobile now?

Hermione hastened up to his bedroom. It was sumptuously decorated but messier than any of the other rooms: discarded robes, each in fabrics more richly colored than the last, lay along his unmade bed, forgotten; a wine glass and empty wine bottle sat on the nightstand; his wardrobe hung open, with expensive-looking Muggle clothes spilling out of it.

The nightstand had a drawer; Hermione beelined for it and yanked it open. Sure enough, there was a mobile in it—along with a large stack of parchment.

"Oh my god," she sputtered aloud, rifling through the parchment.

"What?"

Alphard appeared in the doorway. "What's that?"

"You were right," Hermione said, holding up the letters. "They're all from Astoria."

"Yes!" Alphard punched the air, before a rare flush crossed his cheeks. "I mean, uh, of course," he stammered. Hermione grinned at him briefly, but it was short-lived.

"He had a mobile, too. Barely in use, judging by the bill," Hermione said, opening the mobile. It was, against all expectations of Zabini, an extremely old-fashioned mobile that even her parents had surpassed by now. The battery was dead, though.

"That wouldn't be for Astoria, though," said Alphard, as he knelt next to Hermione on the plush rug and scanned the letters.

"No, but it bothers me a lot more than the letters," said Hermione grimly as she searched for a charger. "Oh, good." Underneath the bed was a charger for the mobile; the cord was knotted hopelessly.

"Bloody hell," Alphard breathed, as he read.

"I know. Sounds like Malfoy was really harassing her," agreed Hermione disgustedly.

"Maybe Zabini did kill him," said Alphard, looking up from the letters. "If someone had done that to the person I loved, I'd kill them."

Hermione thought of the duel between Harry and Alphard.  _He's so protective. Just like Sirius,_ she thought sadly, her eyes never leaving Alphard's.

"I doubt it," said Hermione quietly, pulling her gaze from Alphard. "I mean, I doubt Zabini killed him. That wouldn't explain who killed Zabini."

"Yeah it does. A friend of Malfoy's," snapped Alphard.

"But  _who_? Malfoy didn't really  _have_  any friends, Alphard," said Hermione, rising to her feet. "Take those letters—we can read over them in my office. I want to plug this thing in, too."

"Weren't Malfoy and Nott friends?" Alphard pressed, as they left Zabini's bedroom. Hermione fought back the urge to roll her eyes.

"No. Nott was a follower, but he never really did anything for Malfoy. He was just sort of there, in the group."

"Never had a chance in the spotlight, then," Alphard concluded sagely. They left Zabini's home, Hermione locking the door behind them.

"I'm not sure that bothered him…" Hermione said, stuffing her wand back in her purse. "But you are right—Nott never did get his chance to shine. It was always everyone else. I mean, even now—Zabini got promoted over both of us."

"Why did he, anyway?"

"He's got more connections and is far more compelling in court," said Hermione, as they began walking down the road. "Well,  _had. Was,_ " she corrected bleakly.

For a while, they just walked in silence, both scowling in thought.

"We have so many loose ends," Alphard finally groaned, mopping his face. "All loose ends."

"We're grasping at straws," Hermione agreed. "Let's go back to St Mungo's and see if Harry's awake," she suggested. Alphard wordlessly grasped her hand and led her behind a building, and they turned on the spot.

Harry still hadn't awoken.

"Hermione, lov—"

The Weasleys, sans Ginny, were in the waiting area. Molly had made fresh sandwiches, and Arthur and Ron were both dozing. Molly had risen to greet Hermione, and froze, turning pale, when she spotted Alphard. "O-oh," she stammered.

"Alphard Black, Senior Auror. I work regularly with Potter," Alphard interjected, unfazed, as he leaned in and held out a hand to shake Molly's. She offered a limp hand, barely recovering from her surprise.

"Molly Weasley," she fumbled. "Sorry, dear, but you—"

"—Don't worry about it," Alphard interrupted tersely. His dark eyes flicked over the Weasleys, taking stock. Hermione was certain he was noticing that Ginny wasn't there.

"Where's Ginny?" Hermione pressed. Molly sighed.

"I don't know! No one's seen hide nor hair of her; I thought she'd be with Harry, but…"

"Alright, I'll see if I can find her," reassured Hermione. They turned from the Weasleys and went into the small hall outside of Harry's room.

"Is it odd that Ginny Weasley isn't there?" Alphard asked in a low voice. Hermione nodded mutely.

"I have a really bad feeling," she finally confessed. "Ginny's a very talented witch but—"

"I'll check her flat. Where else would she go?" Alphard asked, as they hurried past the waiting area again.

"She might look at Malfoy Manor…" Hermione pondered. "You take her and Harry's home—it's Grimmauld Place—"

She faltered as Alphard opened his mouth then closed it abruptly.

_But of course he would already know,_ she mused, as their eyes met again, their gazes locking once more.  _That was the Black family home._

"Alright," Alphard finally said. "That sounds like a plan. We'll reconvene at Grimmauld Place in a half hour?"

Hermione's mouth went dry.

"W-will you be alright?" she wondered, hating herself for how her eyes burned with the threat of tears. How did that feel, to know Harry lived in his father's home?  _You don't even know if this theory has any hold,_  she urged herself, and yet…

"I think I'll manage," he said wryly. "It is sort of my job, to hunt Dark wizards."

She couldn't tear her eyes from his.  _My tattoo. It means shame._ He was so complicated, he was unknowable. And yet…that old brilliance was sparking within her.

There was nothing she loved more than a complex puzzle.

"If one of us finds her—or anything else—we'll send a Patronus, then," she agreed, finally turning away, feeling her chest swell once more.  _Anticipation._ She wanted to know the answer. She wanted to understand Alphard Black. She wanted to solve the mystery.

"Good luck." Alphard's voice was unexpectedly soft, but when she turned to look back at him, he had already turned on the spot.

* * *

Hermione appeared before Malfoy Manor once more. It was dark now; the Manor loomed, dark and ominous.

"Ginny?" Hermione called, poking around. She nonverbally cast  _hominem revelio,_ and sure enough, there was someone here.

And yet…

Hermione found herself casting a Disillusionment Charm, unsure of why she felt the need for such a precaution. According to the spell, only one person was here.

Swiftly and silently she entered the Manor, muscles tensed, ears pricked, for any sign of another human being. She crept along the hall, holding her breath, her blood pounding in her head.

There was a gravelly sound, like stone grinding against stone; it had come from the parlor. Hermione resisted the urge to run towards it, and instead continued to creep along, and at long last, reached the opening.

She couldn't contain the gasp that escaped from her lips when she saw who stood there in the parlor.


	10. Chapter 10

**Supermassive Black Hole**

* * *

_Two Years Ago_

* * *

The party was in full swing now, a blur of color and noise that made Theodore shrink back instinctively.  _I can't._ He didn't know how to do this. He wasn't even sure he wanted to do this. Why was he here again?

"Theodore Nott," drawled a familiar voice.

"Greengrass." Theodore acknowledged Daphne reluctantly as she, evidently inebriated and garbed in some ridiculous costume, sidled up to him. "What are you supposed to be?"

She was mostly naked, except for patterned fabric twined strategically around her lithe curves. He noticed now that she'd also elongated her canines, giving her fangs.

"Basilisk.  _Duh._ "

She took a long, bracing swig of her drink. He scanned the throng for anyone who might've put her up to talking to him but no one seemed to notice they were there at all. "And you?"

"I'm not in costume," he said, observing her sway.

"Out of the way!"

Adrian Pucey slammed into them, knocking Daphne's drink out of her hand as he went, laughing, his face flushed and drunk, as Daphne's sister Astoria and a tall man with—his heart skipped a beat for a horrible instant at the sight—a poorly-wrought Voldemort mask—chased him. His stomach gave a swooping lurch as his gaze landed on Astoria.

Salazar—she was  _beautiful_.

Dressed as Circe, with her long, glossy blonde hair curling her slim and notably bare shoulders, she was radiant. And he'd never seen her so animated before, though this made him uncomfortable and unsteady. She normally was so introverted…so withdrawn.

That was part of why he liked her so much.

"Ugh!" Daphne squealed after them, but she was grinning. "Nott, you're too uptight," she slurred when she looked back to him, swaying and nearly knocking into him. "Why not let loose once in a while?"

Theodore extricated himself from Daphne, and his mood plummeted further when Malfoy entered the party, dressed as Slytherin— _how creative_ —and unknowingly overshadowed by Zabini, whose merman costume was so intricate and lifelike that even Theodore had to do a double-take. His smooth, impossibly dark skin was on display and every witch in the room was eying him up.

"Nice costume, Nott. Your most convincing one yet," Malfoy greeted, rendering it impossible for Theodore to simply ghost past him and escape.

"Malfoy! Zabini!" Astoria breathlessly joined them, her golden circlet askew, before he could supply a retort. He watched Malfoy and Zabini's eyes mimic his own and trail over her lovely form. He watched her ignore him, ignore Malfoy, ignore everyone except Zabini.

_No. You don't get her_ _**too** _ _. Not on top of everything else._

The thought, brutal in its childish selfishness, seared his mind—even after the pain dissipated, its presence was not forgotten. "You're a merman," she deemed, looking over Zabini, "and you're…"

"I'm Salazar Slytherin! Why can't anyone figure it out?" Malfoy complained.

Pucey and the tall man with the Voldemort mask appeared now, out of breath and still laughing, now that they were finished terrorizing the other partygoers.

"Voldemort? Edgy," Zabini concluded, arching his brows at the tall man. He glanced at Pucey. "Ah, Pucey. A Quidditch player—just like last year…and the year before that. Groundbreaking."

The tall man slid his mask off, revealing thick blond hair, stubble, and a ruggedly handsome face. He grinned at them, and Theodore heard Zabini draw in a sharp breath. It was unusual for Zabini to let on that he was surprised about anything. "Even more edgy of you to show up at all, Amundsen," he added quietly. Astoria looked at the man—Amundsen—with vague interest, before turning back to Zabini.

"You two know each other?"

"Oh, I'm infamous," teased Amundsen, winking and elbowing Astoria. She seemed uncomfortable around him, and Theodore would have been cheering at her implicit rejection, if not for how eager she seemed to be to talk to Zabini. Malfoy's face seemed to mirror Theodore's thoughts, for he was glowering now at Amundsen, who seemed to present far less of a threat than Zabini.  _So we all want her and we all know we can't compete with Zabini._ There was no clearer sign that the Hogwarts days had well and truly ended—Zabini wasn't taking a backseat to the attention like he had always done. Malfoy was no longer on top.

"If by infamous you mean currently one of the most hunted Dark wizards in Europe, then, yes," drawled Zabini casually.

"That's just my costume," Amundsen jested at Astoria's wide eyes. She took a step back and Theodore watched the shadow that passed over Amundsen's face.

Just then, Pansy sidled up to them, in nondescript green and silver medieval garb.

"And who are you supposed to be?" Pucey asked, looking at Pansy as she latched onto Malfoy, who reflexively began to step away before catching himself.

"Slytherin's wife!"

" _If_ he had had one," interjected Zabini with a snort. Astoria laughed and Theodore watched her eyes catch Zabini's, for one private fleeting instant. "Such ambition, Parkinson, really, I'm impressed," Zabini added, recovering seamlessly from the moment with Astoria.

Was he allowed to go home yet?

"Nott's not even dressed up," Pansy pointed out, her eyes glimmering wickedly. She knew full well he hated having any attention brought on him.

"Yes, he is—he's…" Malfoy drifted off. "…Er, what are you, exactly?" He tried to stare down his nose at Theodore but he was two or three inches shorter and the effect was understandably lost.

"Not dressed up."

"Ha! Not! Like Nott! He's 'Nott, Dressed Up'! Get it?" Pucey guffawed, clapping. Zabini and Astoria arched their brows at him as Malfoy and Pansy laughed hysterically. Amundsen slipped back on his mask almost furtively, then, and Theodore wondered what the cause was, but he didn't have to wonder for very long.

Suddenly Pucey was beaming and letting out loud wolf-whistles. "Alright, everyone, you all have got to meet someone who would absolutely have been an excellent addition to Slytherin, back in school!"

He stepped aside to allow an infuriatingly handsome man with dark, jaw-length wavy hair into the circle.  _Definitely a Black,_ Theodore concluded, raking his gaze over the trademark features of the Black family: a rebellious dusting of freckles over the bridge of the nose; dark, clever eyes; dark, mussed, wavy hair; and a wicked grin. He was wearing the Bulgarian Quidditch team robes and had drawn on a unibrow in an unfortunately uncanny imitation of Viktor Krum. "He's an Auror for Germany's Ministry, but don't hold that against him. He's certainly from a Pureblood family—meet Alphard Black."

"We're relatives, then," Malfoy remarked swiftly, stepping forward to offer his hand. Alphard Black didn't make a move to shake it.

"Aren't we all? Incestuous bunch, us Purebloods," he snarked.

"How are you related to the Black family?" Theodore stabbed bravely, clearing his throat and feeling his face flush. Alphard smirked.

"By blood?" he mused with a quirk of his brow, but he had clearly dismissed Theodore before he'd even spoken. His eyes roved to Amundsen's Voldemort mask. He didn't seem as amused as the other partygoers by the mask. "Well, then—no holds barred, eh?"

"Zabini here said it was  _edgy_." Amundsen's voice was significantly muffled behind the mask.  _So he's afraid that the German Aurors are hunting him too, then?_ Theodore wondered, glancing between Alphard Black and Amundsen. He'd thought Zabini was joking about the man being a Dark wizard, but now he realized he hadn't been. In the corner of his eye, Theodore saw Daphne join the fringe of their group wordlessly, her gaze fixed on the newcomer who was supposedly a Black.

"Who are your parents?" Malfoy pressed. Alphard glanced at him disinterestedly.

"I'll send over my extended family tree with my CV as soon as possible," he said, mock-seriously. Astoria and Zabini began to laugh openly as Malfoy's face flushed. "Say—I heard there was butterbeer-pong?" he said aside to Pucey, making it clear he'd already forgotten Malfoy.

"Oh, yeah—Flint bewitched the balls so they fly around on their own," Pucey said eagerly, pulling Alphard away. "I almost forgot you were Durmstrang's best Seeker— _excellent._ "

"I like him," remarked Astoria, her eyes twinkling.  _Of course you do,_ thought Theodore venomously, hearing Daphne mutter her agreement behind him. Zabini was poorly hiding a grin behind his drink.

"That was well bad," he said wryly to Malfoy, who was still fuming. Pansy was patting his arm absently, but her brown gaze was heavy on Amundsen's mask.

Theodore extricated himself once more. On his way out of the party, he passed by Pucey and Black, who were engaged in what he assumed was Butterbeer-pong with a number of Theodore's former schoolmates. Flint, dressed all too appropriately as a troll, appeared to be losing sorely to Alphard Black.

"Hey, swot!" called Alphard to him. Their eyes met across the room. Alphard grinned, gesturing for him to come over. Reluctantly, Theodore approached him and Pucey. They were grinning broader now, most likely at his expense. Alphard slung an arm round Theodore's shoulders, pulling him in close, and steered him to face the group he'd just left.

Zabini and Astoria were already deep in conversation, standing so close you couldn't have fit parchment between them, and Pansy was doing a poor job of comforting Malfoy. Amundsen was already gone, and Daphne had followed Alphard and Pucey to the game. "If you want the girl," Alphard began in a low voice in his ear. Theodore could smell his cologne and it didn't help matters.  _Stuck up, full-of-himself git._  "…Then you've got to actually  _speak_  once in a while."

"I don't know what you're talk—"

"The blonde. With the hair," Alphard murmured exasperatedly. Theodore felt his face grow hot. He knew from experience that it would start looking embarrassingly blotchy soon.

"I have no interest in her," he snapped, but his face was only growing warmer. He despised this idiot for interfering.

"So, all that drooling and gazing was for Voldemort then?" Alphard asked dubiously, snorting at him. "Well, no accounting for taste." He released him, and slapped him on the back, just a tad too hard. "Good luck, mate. I tried." He had already turned back to his games with Pucey and Flint before Theodore had recovered.

Theodore stared at Alphard's sinewed back. Even if his costume of Krum was supposed to be unflattering, he wore the Quidditch robes all too well. All the girls were looking at him. He was the center of attention.

Just once, he thought desperately, staring at Alphard with a powerful hunger, he would like to know what it was like—to be  _that_  man: the man the girls looked at, the man that every other man wanted to be. Just once, he wanted to walk into a room and have all eyes turn to  _him._

Just  _once._

"He's staring at you now, Black," Pucey was sniggering, glancing back at him. Black glanced over his shoulder and winked at Theodore cheekily.

"I'm definitely at least  _one_  step up from Voldemort," he reasoned with Pucey. "He's refining his tastes. Must by the hair."

"Fuck off," Theodore snapped, and he turned away. He pushed his way through the groups—he had never hated parties quite this much—and made it out the door into the silent, blessedly cool and empty hall. Seconds later, Alphard Black appeared.

"Sorry, for back there," he said breathlessly, but he was grinning as he lazily leaned against the door. The humidity of the party—too many bodies packed into too small a flat—had made the drawn-on unibrow melt off. And now Alphard Black was just a handsome bloke in a well-tailored Quidditch costume. "But come on—what's your plan?"

"I don't see how this is your business."

"Well, does anyone  _know_?" Alphard tried again, still grinning. "I mean, it was obvious to me, but that was only because I bothered to look. Does she even know your name?"

"Did it ever occur to you how incredibly insulting this is?"

Alphard opened his mouth to say something, but the door opened, revealing Daphne.

"Come  _on_ , Black—it's your turn!" she called petulantly. Alphard shot one last look at him, then hastened back inside, to much cheering from those inside. Not five minutes in and already Alphard had bonded better with his schoolmates than Theodore had in nearly twenty years.

And now Theodore was alone again in the silence.

Theodore stood there in the hall, the party a dull din trapped on the other side of the door—or rather, as always, he was merely trapped outside and looking in on a world that had excluded him from the start.

He walked along the hall numbly.  _Does she even know your name?_  How humiliating. There was a window at the end of the hall by the stairs, and he leaned against the wall, staring out the window, ensconced in darkness, lost in his own humiliation.

The door to the party opened and shut; briefly the dull din became a roar that was soon quieted again. And then—

"Do you have any idea of how close you were just now?"

"I had a  _mask_. Salazar, you're uptight."

"Alphard Black is Germany's top Auror, and the word is that our Ministry is more or less poaching him. Shacklebolt was overheard saying he'd slice off his wand arm if it would get him Black. Have you not heard his record?! He's on  _Potter's_  level." Malfoy sounded on the verge of hysteria. "Are you  _trying_  to land yourself in Azkaban?"

"Ah, right." Amundsen's voice became cool, sharp as a diamond. "I forgot your  _daddy_  died there."

Theodore watched from the shadows in fascination. In any other circumstance, Malfoy would have retaliated, but he seemed more or less paralyzed. Interesting. There was not just a small amount of satisfaction to be drawn from seeing Malfoy so powerless.

"I've— _we've_ —worked far too hard to fuck everything up now over a  _Halloween_  party, for Merlin's sake," he insisted.

"No one at that party would turn me in."

"Except yourself, apparently!"

Theodore's acute sense of self-preservation was kicking in now—a bit later than usual, but it kicked in nonetheless—and he nonverbally cast a Disillusionment charm over himself. He couldn't believe neither man was being more careful. He was barely hidden.

"You're even stupider than I thought if you think a bloody pretty-boy like that brat could be the end of me." Amundsen's voice was low, fast, scathing. Theodore watched him slash his wand through the air and pin Malfoy violently to the wall. The blond man smirked as he watched Malfoy struggling against invisible binds. "It'll take more than some stuck-up  _jock_  to take me down. He probably knows more about bloody  _hair styling_ than he does about being an Auror."

Privately, Theodore agreed, mostly out of vehement dislike for Alphard Black.  _So, all that drooling and gazing was for Voldemort, then?_  Black's words echoed once more, prompting a torrent of hatred and resentment.

And then  _it_  happened and Theodore forgot entirely about Alphard Black, at least momentarily.

Amundsen must have cast a spell to silence Malfoy, but Theodore never heard it. All he heard was that word—that horrible word that had haunted his dreams ever since his childhood.

" _Crucio."_

Malfoy mutely strained and writhed, to no avail. Amundsen watched calmly from behind his Voldemort mask.

Theodore watched in horror and amazement. He couldn't tear his gaze from the sight. Spittle gathered at the corners of Malfoy's mouth; sweat plastered his fine blond hair to his pale skin; he trembled and shook so violently he looked like he might break his neck.

When at last Amundsen released Malfoy and Malfoy, shaking and pale, crumpled to the floor in a sweaty, trembling heap, Amundsen turned towards where Theodore sat, and sauntered along the hall.

"Don't think I've forgotten about you—what was your name again? Not that anyone cares, of course. Nott, was it?"

Theodore held his breath.

"Finite incantatem," said Amundsen lazily, with a bored swipe of his wand. He could  _feel_  the Disillusionment charm melting away as Amundsen loomed over him now, the rubbery Voldemort mask even more eerie in the faint moonlight streaming in through the window. "Well, you look just like someone who will do  _anything_  to save his own arse."

* * *

_Present_

* * *

" _Pansy?"_

Hermione swiped her Disillusionment charm away as she entered the parlor to see Pansy standing in front of the mantle, crying. Pansy coughed and choked on her sobs as she saw Hermione.

"M—Hermione Granger," Pansy corrected hastily, sputtering and flushing. Hermione arched her brows at her.  _Seriously? After all this time, you_ still _almost called me Mudblood?_ She wasn't mad so much as amazed.

"What are you doing here? This Manor is restricted to Ministry officials," Hermione said, stepping forward and into the parlor. Pansy rolled her eyes.

"This was going to be  _my home_  in less than a week," she snapped. She turned away and let out another choking sob. "And I can't stop thinking about him," she sobbed, blowing her nose violently into a handkerchief. Hermione inwardly groaned.

She didn't have time for this.

"Right, well, until we've closed the investigation, we can't risk you tampering with evidence," she said crisply. "I'm—" she tried, but she couldn't manage to wrench out  _I'm very sorry,_ so she continued on briskly, "—well, unfortunately, you're going to have to leave. Now."

She escorted a surly Pansy out the front door and back into the snow. "Was anyone here with you?"

Pansy wordlessly shook her head before blowing her nose again and continuing to sob.

Hermione waited until Pansy had gone, and then turned back to Malfoy Manor. She checked her watch—already she'd lost valuable time. Within fifteen minutes she'd have to be back at Grimmauld Place.

What if they were just being paranoid about Ginny? She wondered as she re-entered the Manor. And why had Pansy _really_  been there, crying and staring at the mantle? It was easy to dismiss Pansy as unimportant—the girl could hardly Transfigure a matchbox so she was unlikely to be capable of running with the likes of Amundsen or Zabini—but she'd seen enough in her time to know that dismissing the people you looked down on was always your downfall in the end.

Feeling unsettled, Hermione sent a Patronus to Whelkes, asking him to keep an eye on Pansy Parkinson. She sent another one to Ron, asking him to let her know if Ginny reappeared or if Harry awoke.

Pansy had been standing in front of the mantle, where Malfoy's body had been found. Hermione went to the parlor now and stood where Pansy had stood, and peered around. There was nothing that caught her attention, though.

Why had Malfoy been pushed into the fireplace, anyway? And why had Pansy been staring at it?

Hermione paced, considering the facts.

So they knew Amundsen had been here, and they knew Harry had been here—that linked Amundsen to Malfoy, but how? And was Zabini's death even related? It seemed like it had to be. …But everything was all tangled together and she couldn't find the start of the thread. Why had Harry come here? And why had he come alone? Why had Alphard known Harry would be found in the woods? Why had the anastasis appeared on Harry's forehead?

...What if Amundsen hadn't been the one to put it there?

And had Malfoy really been the one to rape Astoria?

For some reason she was beginning to feel like it hadn't been him.

Hermione peered around corners in the parlor, looking for nothing in particular, her mind working rapidly. Where was Ginny? When had she disappeared?

She checked her watch once more—she had less than ten minutes left, now, and still had got no word from Alphard, which probably meant Ginny wasn't at Grimmauld Place. Feeling increasingly off-balance, Hermione Apparated to Grimmauld Place.

* * *

Alphard stood before Grimmauld Place. He knew he should have felt something more, standing here on its stoop, but nothing seemed to come. The resounding emptiness within him was almost worse. All that had to matter, he told himself, was that he find Ginny Weasley. In his worst moments he had learned, very long ago, to simply ignore his own emotions and focus on the task before him. He would have to do that now. _Step one: go inside._

He drew in a deep breath and knocked on the door, first. No response. Glancing round furtively, he nonverbally cast a few spells and the door clicked open. Potter would have a number of security spells in place, and sure enough, he watched his own spells disable them in the front hall.

It was easy—after all, he had done this before.

"Hello?" he called, shutting the door behind himself. He was met with silence. He nonverbally cast  _hominem revelio,_  but it seemed no one was here.

He made his way through the house, peering around in interest. Potter and Ginny Weasley had evidently worked hard to make the house look less like a shrine to the Dark arts, but there was a darkness surrounding this place that would not be erased. Last time he had come here, Sirius Black's bedroom had remained intact, and he wondered... Forgetting about his mission, he found himself hastening up the stairs.

It was all gone—the room was mostly empty, save for a number of boxes stacked against the wall, and some very old Muggle posters of girls in bikinis, stuck permanently to the wall, their retro faces faded.

He had to tear himself away from the boxes, and remind himself of the task at hand. Finding Potter's fiancee was a time-sensitive task, and if she really had gone missing, every minute was precious in terms of finding her alive and safe.

There were no signs of distress in the house, though. He was certain that Ginny Weasley hadn't returned here. Alphard checked his watch and noted that he was due to reconvene with Granger soon.

Objectively, he reflected as he returned to the first floor, they were flailing. They had no conclusive leads, people were going missing or dying left and right, and though they had some vague idea that Amundsen might be connected to Malfoy in some way, there was no real basis for that, other than the anastasis being found on Potter's forehead. But what if that hadn't been Amundsen? There was something off about it. It didn't seem Amundsen's style, and the message that it was sending was unclear.

He heard the front door swing open; he was in the kitchen now, still looking for any signs of a break-in.

"Alphard?"

Alphard poked his head into the front hall; indeed, Granger was there, snow dusting her slim shoulders and melting in her wild, wind-whipped hair. "Pansy Parkinson was at Malfoy Manor—she was crying," she said immediately, moving forward with the authority of someone who had spent quite a lot of time here. "She didn't seem to be doing anything though. I sent a Patronus to Whelkes to let him know he ought to keep an eye on her."

"Weird." Alphard looked around demonstratively with an exasperated wave of his hands. "There's nothing here—there's no way she returned here recently."

They stood there in the hall in silence, both lost. "Basically, we're fucked," Alphard added, raking his hands through his hair. Granger exhaled.

"We have nothing," she agreed. "Let's go back to the Ministry and look at Zabini's letters and mobile. I told Ron to let us know if they found Ginny or if Harry woke up. I don't know where else Ginny could possibly be and we can have the junior Aurors searching."

Alphard nodded mutely; he was eager to get out of this house. He brushed past Granger and exited. Now it was dark, and snowing more heavily.

"Just a few days 'til Christmas," came Granger's voice. He heard her setting up a number of alert spells and security spells, and then she joined him in the small square. "They're supposed to be getting married on Christmas Eve."

Alphard said nothing; Hermione wondered desperately what he was thinking as she watched him glance back at Grimmauld Place, a mixture of regret and shame evident in his eyes. She took his hand and led him to the alleyway; they turned on the spot.

* * *

Ginny awoke in pain; it was dark and the air smelled musty. She held her breath and held still, waiting for some cue as to where she was, but there was only silence, save for the howling of the wind and snow outside. A thick rope bound her wrists behind her back, and her ankles together. She was gagged, and her jaw ached from the pressure. She was lying on a floor thick with grime and grit, and slightly damp. It was cold here—it was most likely an abandoned building.

She strained her memory, but she could not determine what had occurred between leaving St Mungo's and waking up here, now. Harry had described the mental fog that  _Obliviate_  always left in its wake; she now could say she had experienced it firsthand. It was sickening, and not unlike waking up from having woken up after becoming blackout drunk.

She shifted, testing how tight the rope was.

"Don't bother. It's too tight," came a voice that made her memory itch. She knew that voice—where had she heard it before?

And then she heard it—a soft, muffled crying sound. It was a little girl, perhaps in the next room. Ginny's blood boiled. She heard her captor let out a disgusted sigh, and nearby the floorboards creaked as he rose to his feet. "Not again," he muttered under his breath. She listened as his footsteps disappeared into another room and the door shut.

Immediately, she frantically began twisting and writhing. Like hell would she give up without a fight.

* * *

When Hermione and Alphard reached the Ministry, they split up the letters parted ways. Hermione guessed that Alphard wanted some space—and her hypothesis from earlier haunted her again. Watching Alphard's tall, lean form as he returned to his own office, absently raking a hand through his hair as he walked, she was transported to staying in Grimmauld Place more than a decade ago, watching Sirius pace the halls like a caged tiger.

It had happened, earlier, too, when she had returned to Grimmauld Place to reconvene with Alphard. He'd been standing in the hall, and she had truly mistaken him, for one horrible moment, as Sirius' ghost.

Shaking her head and unsure of what to do with the certainty of her conclusion, Hermione returned to her office and began sifting through the stack of letters between Astoria and Zabini.

_Blaise-_

_I can't believe I'm actually writing a love letter, because that's more or less what this is, isn't it? It's really not 'me' at all! But since we can't see each other regularly, this will have to do._

_I keep thinking of how you looked at Adrian's Halloween party and grinning to myself. Everyone was so jealous of you. And of course, I appreciated the view..._

_Remember the odd bloke in the you-know-who mask? Daph said he actually asked her out to dinner at the end of the night! They've a date this weekend but I think she's not very happy about it. She really liked Adrian's friend, the one from Durmstrang who totally shamed Malfoy when he said they were related. Remember him? That was hilarious! I liked him a lot. But he looked_ _so much_ _like Malfoy's Aunt Bella! It gave me the shivers. Daph thought he was gorgeous but apparently he barely noticed her. I saw him harassing Nott. I feel bad for thinking it but it was kind of funny…Nott's always so awkward and stiff._

_I miss you every day. I feel like my life has become interruptions between the times I get to actually be with you. Work is torture. I know you're only one floor away and it drives me mad. Malfoy won't let up. He comes by my desk every hour it seems and I can't get him to leave. He really thinks he's got a chance—even when he's been engaged to Pansy! I can't tell if she knows or cares how unfaithful he is._

_Can we meet this weekend? I need to see you..._

_Love,_

_Astoria_

Hermione's stomach gave a lurch—so Alphard had been at this party? Astoria  _had_  to be referring to him.  _Harassing Nott…how kind, Alphard,_ she thought with a roll of her eyes.

And it seemed odd that there was someone wearing a Voldemort mask—even in that crowd it would have to have been extremely offensive. Who had it been? That was a tight-knit group, so it had to have been someone she knew... And then there was the evidence that Malfoy had been starting to harass Astoria.

Hermione circled the part about Malfoy and glanced at the mobile, but it still hadn't powered on yet. It might have been broken—which reminded her of Tracey's extra mobile, which lay broken, stashed in a drawer in her office. They still hadn't established what that had been for.

It was like there was an itch in her mind—she was missing something here, something hidden in plain sight.

Hermione went to Alphard's office. The Auror division was just as empty as the rest of the Ministry; most people were out on their Christmas holiday already, she supposed. Alphard's light was on. Inside, he had Transfigured his chair into a sofa and was lounging on it, one arm folded behind his head, legs crossed, as he scanned the letters. When she stood in the doorway, he peered over the parchment at her. She noticed his shirt riding up slightly; exposing his belt and a sliver of flat, lean abdomen.

"Anything?" he prompted, sitting up slightly.

"You were at a Halloween party at Adrian Pucey's flat two years ago?" she asked, pointing to the letter. She went and sat on the edge of the sofa, near his boots. He set aside the letters, and shifted backwards to allow her more room.

"Oh, that—I forgot," he said slowly, frowning as he recalled. Then he was grinning, apparently remembering the party.

"Did you meet anyone in a Voldemort mask?" she pressed.

"Yes, actually. Never got his name, though," said Alphard, looking thoughtful. "Astoria wrote about that?"

"That, and apparently he asked Daphne Greengrass for a date, and she was sad because she'd been more interested in you." Hermione paused, scanning the letter. "Oh, and at some point you insulted Malfoy in front of everyone?"

"I made many friends that night," Alphard recalled dryly. "Nott was there, not in costume of course, creeping around..." he trailed off, then gasped. "That's right. I teased him about fancying Astoria and he got mad and stormed out."

"Nott fancied Astoria?" Hermione blurted out in surprise. Alphard snorted, staring into space as he remembered.

"Oh, yeah, it was a bloody shame. He never said a word, just stared at her like some sort of idiot, and the whole time, she was just looking at Zabini. The bloke in the Voldemort mask seemed really into her, though. I wonder who that was."

"Sounds like you were really understanding of Nott," said Hermione. "It's no wonder the two of you hate each other so much."

Alphard groaned.

"Granger, I don't get why you're so bloody defensive of him."

"Maybe because I understand him!" she exploded.

Alphard balked.

"You understand him," he repeated dubiously. "Granger, you have literally  _nothing_  in common with him, except your occupation."

Hermione bristled.

"I've got plenty in common with him." She hesitated, afraid to speak, but plowed on, avoiding Alphard's gaze. "Always on the sidelines—only important when you're needed."

She looked up when Alphard said nothing. He was arching his brows at her.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Alphard simply stared at her, his jaw slack.

"That is the biggest load of bollocks I've ever heard," he said plainly. "Granger, Nott is a watcher. You're a doer. And always on the sidelines? You're one of the biggest celebrities in our world. Please—don't give me that crap."

"No! I mean, with the people we fancy," she corrected desperately, feeling her face grow hot. "I don't know what it feels like to—to—to be  _wanted,_  or…" she trailed off and looked down. "Never mind. Forget I spoke."

"I will, for your sake," snarked Alphard. He was shaking his head disgustedly as he nabbed the letter from her and scanned it. "Merlin— _sidelines,_  what a load of—"

"It's how I've always felt," she interrupted in a high voice. She met Alphard's eyes once more. "I'm sorry," she said genuinely. "It's just…" she sighed. "People only talk to me when they need me. Not when they  _want_  me."

She bit her lip before continuing. But it felt good to let it out. "I want to know what it's like to be wanted. I want to know what it's like to be someone like you, or Ginny. I think Nott wants that too. Just—just to know what it's like. To be someone's first choice."

How did he do that with his eyes? It wasn't Legilimency but she felt like he was x-raying her mind.

"I think," he began in a low voice, "you already do know."

She opened her mouth, and then closed it. She was afraid to travel any further down this path—afraid of what interpretations she might have made that were wrong. Alphard's gaze was heavy but warm. Too warm. Her mouth was dry as goosebumps prickled along her skin and her heart gave a series of shudders, like she had missed a step on the way up the stairs, that delightful but terrifying swooping  _lurch_.  _What if…_

… _What if…_

"Oh, anyway," she blustered suddenly, snatching at the letters and changing the tone hastily.

She was grateful to have the letters to read through—the distraction from the intensity of their conversation was a blessing. She heard Alphard scoff and then slouch back again, in a more relaxed pose.

_Blaise—_

_Daph stood that man up! I'm relieved, since you said he was a Dark wizard, but I wasn't sure if you were joking…? Anyway, there's a get-together tomorrow night at Pansy's place. Are you going? Please say yes. I need to see you._

"Hm. Odd." Hermione jabbed Alphard and pointed to the letter. She tried to hide how her fingers were still shaking from the adrenaline of having spoken such a deep, dark feeling. Alphard sat up again and leaned in close—too close—and scanned it, seemingly unaffected from their moment before, arching his brows. She felt like a punctured balloon. ' _What if' indeed,_ she thought wryly, trying to see the humor in her own wishful thinking.

"We've got to talk to Daph," Alphard concluded, tossing aside his own stack of letters. Hermione hung back.

"You do it," she reasoned. Alphard stood over her, looking bemused. "You need her cooperation, Alphard, and you're less likely to get it if I'm there."

_She thinks I'm going to fall for you._

Alphard's words from earlier stacked up like bricks between them.

"Well, fine. Just keep me updated. You can stay here if you want," he said finally, looking away and grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair.

Hermione watched him go, feeling her heart begin to race. She pawed through the rest of the letters, but they were suddenly shockingly mundane, with only mentions of Malfoy's absurd advances.  _She's definitely censoring herself,_ Hermione reasoned, flipping through them.  _But why?_

And what about Zabini's mobile?

… _What about Zabini's mobile?_

She locked Alphard's office and hastened to the Muggle Studies division where the mobile had been charging, and indeed, the mobile was powered on now. Breathless with excitement, she snatched it up and sprinted back to her own office, hunting for a signal. She was able to get one in the hall outside of her office, and she flipped open the mobile and scanned the call history.

It was to the same number, over and over again, at increasingly odd times of night, for various amounts of time.

The most recent call had been last week. Zabini had missed it, because by this point, he had been dead.

Her stomach dropped. With shaking hands, Hermione recklessly dialed the number, and held the mobile up to her ear, listening to the dial tone, drawing in shaky breaths, her hands clammy and grappling at the mobile clumsily.

And then there was a tinny ringing coming from inside her office.

Hermione almost dropped the mobile as she stared in utter shock at her closed office door. She could hear the dial tone from the mobile in her hand as she listened to the ringing coming from her office. Without looking at the mobile, she shut it, effectively hanging up.

The ringing stopped.

* * *

Alphard returned to his flat, but Daphne was gone. With a heaviness that betrayed just how  _tired_  he really was, Alphard Apparated to Daphne and Astoria's flat.

He could hear someone inside; he was certain it was Daphne. He knocked on the door.

"Daph?" he called, leaning against the doorframe. The door clicked and opened, revealing Astoria. "O-oh—"

"—Black—" Astoria stammered. "I wasn't—"

Her face was blotchy and red, and her hair was a mess as though she'd not brushed it in days.  _That's right,_ Alphard recalled now, as their eyes met,  _she quit her job recently._

"I know this is unexpected. I'm looking for Daphne—she round?" Alphard said lightly, straightening up. His eyes instinctively followed the barest hints of her slender form underneath the baggy robes she was wearing. Even like this, she was truly stunning.

And yet…he felt no attraction to her, and though logically he knew a girl this beautiful would always garner significant attention, he didn't feel that same fascination himself. She was beautiful the way a celebrity was beautiful: remote and lacking that hidden character, those signs of wit and cleverness that he seemed to have a weakness for.  _Like Daphne,_ he reminded himself firmly, though she had not been the first example of such a woman to come to mind just now.

"She's not," said Astoria, fidgeting with her robe and looking down, almost shamefacedly. Alphard sighed and raked his hands through his hair. An idea struck him.

"Mind if I come in and wait? I really need to talk to her," he insisted, considering pushing his way into the flat as though she'd already accepted, and then deciding against it, recalling what Daphne had said about her sister's current state.

"A-actually…" Astoria stumbled over her words—a stark contrast from the lovely, confident, if a bit uninspiring, girl that he'd met at the Halloween party. "Um, she's out, and she'll be for a while. Maybe you could owl her tomorrow."

And she slammed the door in his face.

* * *

Hermione exploded into her office and ripped through the drawers until she located Tracey's mobile, but it remained in pieces and unable to power on, though it had been ringing seconds earlier.

_It's a spell,_ she realized. With a gasp, she took the two mobiles, and sprinted down the hall to the Magical Artifact testing room. Locked inside, she set the two mobiles inside the testing box, closed it, and placed her wand in the opening, and, brow furrowed, uttered a few extremely powerful spells, stripping the mobiles of any magic on them. It was tough, because Zabini's magic was strong.

But hers was stronger.

The façade of the broken mobile wore off—it was in perfectly good shape. It looked like it had even had an enchantment on it to make it impervious to breakage.

So Zabini had been in contact with Tracey.

But why? Hermione left the testing room and paced the halls frantically, hands fisted in her hair, her breathing quick and shallow. Zabini had been in contact with Tracey. And Zabini had been supposedly doing Malfoy and Pansy's pre-nuptial contract, but Nott had a separate, unofficial one.

_Wait._ When had Zabini acquired the mobile? When had the mobile contact started?

Hermione returned to her office and tore through the office, looking for the mobile bill that she'd taken from Zabini's office. The bill didn't tell her how long the contract had existed, so she made a few choice calls to the service provider.

Mobile pressed between her ear and shoulder, Hermione snatched a spare scrap of parchment and scribbled down the date.  _November 10_ _th_ _._ From two years ago.

She dropped her quill.

So sometime around when Zabini and Astoria had begun seeing each other, Zabini had got in contact with Tracey somehow, and, according to the account, purchased two mobiles and a family plan.

Hermione stared into space with growing horror and elation. It was an odd mix that left her stomach unsettled and her heart racing.

She had to talk to Nott.

It was a sodden mix of rain and snow that night; Alphard put his mind to hunting down Ginny Weasley, while at the same time, her status was upgraded to 'missing' officially. Alphard couldn't bring himself to return to the Ministry. Granger was there. He didn't want to see her.

So instead, almost surprised at his own sudden change in direction, he Apparated to the Hog's Head and disguised himself as a foreign Wizard with the quick addition of some facial hair and heavy scarring on half his face. He had no intention of drinking—it was just the perfect place to pick up information, he told himself. It was like taking Felix Felicis—somehow he just had a feeling he ought to go to the Hog's Head. It was not dissimilar to the sixth sense with which he had known to approach the woods outside of Malfoy Manor, when looking for Potter.

He entered the grimy pub and sat at the bar with the hood of his cloak pulled over his head, intent on gathering as much intel as possible. His mind kept wandering back to Granger, however, and her confession earlier that day.

_I want to know what it's like to be wanted._ Her words were burned into his brain.

It explained quite a bit, and upon reflection, he was ashamed at himself for even being surprised by it. It explained her feelings for Potter, certainly. Potter needed her continually, as did Weasley. It was the only way she knew how to accept love, he reckoned. And when they didn't need her…she was forgotten, back to being their bushy-haired bookworm friend—a secondary priority at best.

The door opened; Alphard glanced at the entrance and saw two familiar figures enter.

Theodore Nott and Pansy Parkinson.

From the safety of his cloak, his dark eyes followed them as they made their way to a grubby table in the corner. A lanky figure followed closely behind them, and Alphard fought the urge to mop his face with his hands.

Whelkes stood out like a sore thumb. He'd evidently prepared himself before entering, because he'd removed his glasses and had Transfigured his robes so that now he looked more like a member of the Weird Sisters than a frequenter of the Hog's Head. Only, he wore his disguise with such profound and obvious discomfort that he looked like he was in costume on Halloween. All eyes followed him with interest as he stumbled up to the bar—evidently he was suffering for having removed his glasses—and clumsily ordered a glass of water.

"Whelkes," Alphard hissed under his breath. The younger Auror looked around eagerly and Alphard further slumped forward in exasperation. "Over here," he muttered gruffly. Whelkes' hazel eyes finally landed on him with interest and confusion.

"How did you know?" Whelkes asked as he sat down next to Alphard.

"How the hell did you even pass the disguises module?" Alphard snarked, mopping his face. Whelkes reddened.

"It wasn't my strongest point," he admitted, bristling at the implied criticism. "What are you doing here?"

"Same thing you are, I reckon. Granger told you to follow her?"

"Yup. She—"

Alphard swiftly kicked Whelkes in the shin under the bar.

"Tell me later, you idiot," he grumbled. "I need to get closer but you've ruined everything. Everyone in the bloody place is looking at you and there's no way Nott won't recognize you."  _Even if I can't stand the bloke, it's not like he's actually stupid,_ Alphard thought unhappily.

"I'm going to send a Patronus to Granger," said Whelkes now. "She'll be able to do it," he added. As Alphard watched Whelkes slide off the stool and slap a few Knuts on the bar, it hit him quite suddenly.

Whelkes fancied Granger.

He had to bury his face in his otherwise untouched firewhiskey to hide his laughter.  _Well, looks like you really are someone's first choice after all, Granger…_

But there was no time for that now. Alphard wondered if he'd be able to catch any of Parkinson and Nott's conversation. Their heads were bowed together, deep in discussion. Alphard angled his stool slightly, pretending to be eying Parkinson up.

He could just barely make out Parkinson's lips forming  _Granger._ His heart shuddered.  _Fuck._

That couldn't be good.

Whelkes, in a surprising stroke of wisdom, didn't return. Alphard continued to watch Parkinson, but Nott had guided her to keep her back more to the bar. Over her shoulder, Alphard met Nott's eyes. He didn't flinch, merely held his gaze, and glanced demonstratively at Parkinson's arse and held up his firewhiskey in a mock-salute. Nott's mouth twisted in a disgusted grimace before his gaze jerked back to Pansy.

In his periphery he saw the door swing open, bringing in a gust of flurries, and an enormous Hag beetled inside. Alphard masked his smirk with his glass.  _Hello, Granger,_  he thought, wondering when Granger had gotten hold of Hag hairs. It seemed plausible she'd have them just lying around in her black hole of an office, just in case…

"Even scarred, you still have all the women looking at you," wheezed Granger through her balaclava when she finally reached Alphard.

"Not Parkinson," Alphard murmured regretfully. Granger heaved herself onto the bar stool, her back to Parkinson and Nott.  _Like a pro,_ he thought with no small measure of pride.

"I have so much to tell you," Granger breathed, her words barely detectable over the ruckus of the pub. It was late now, and things were getting rowdy. "Zabini was in contact. With Tracey."

Alphard almost dropped his glass. He steeled himself and downed his firewhiskey. Any more nursing of it and he'd draw attention to himself. "He bought the mobile for her and she tried to call him, the day he died."

"Whelkes fancies you," he blurted out, surprised at himself. He felt the heat of the firewhiskey hit his throat, scald all the way down, then pool like molten gold in the pit of his belly. He heard Granger snort.

"Because Ginny's married and therefore unattainable. But never mind that—I think…" she dropped her voice even lower, forcing Alphard to lean in close, "…I think that Amundsen was the man in the Voldemort mask."

"What makes you—"

"—And," Granger continued, "I think I know who murdered Zabini. And who murdered Malfoy. And I think that might lead us to Erica."

His head was spinning, and not just from the sudden influx of firewhiskey.

"How—"

"But I've got zero hard evidence. Alphard, we've  _got_  to get evidence for this." She glanced over her shoulder, back at Nott and Parkinson. "Let's go to Nott manor. We just need to make sure Nott doesn't come home for a while," she continued.

"You think Nott—"

"No. But I think he'll have clues," Granger said. "I just need time to search, and—"

"I've got an idea. You go," Alphard murmured.

"Thanks."

Hermione left, though already her form was shrinking under the heavy worn robes, back to her real form. Alphard watched her go, feeling off-balance even more than before.

"Barkeep," he called, pretending to be utterly drunk. "Round of firewhiskey for the lovely bloke and lady over there. On me," he slurred, wobbling in his seat, gesturing wildly.

He watched the barkeep bemusedly pour two glasses of firewhiskey and take them to a baffled Nott and Parkinson. Alphard slid off the stool and approached them now. Over the heads of the other patrons, his gaze met Nott's once more.

There was no note of recognition in Nott's grey eyes. He had no idea of who he was looking at, at all. Alphard had to mask a catlike smirk of superiority.

"Drinks on me for the lovely couple," said Alphard, modulating his voice to a slur as he sidled up to Nott and Parkinson. He fell into the third chair at the table and grinned roguishly at Pansy.

"We're not a couple," sputtered Nott, his face flushing.

"Maybe not yet, but after a few rounds of these, you will be," he said cheekily with a wink. Pansy snorted as Nott's face grew increasingly blotchy.

"I'm having one. It's been a shit few weeks," Pansy said defensively to Nott, before taking one of the firewhiskeys and downing it. She slammed the empty glass back down on the table, looking exhilarated. After a moment, she grimaced—the firewhiskey was starting to burn. "Ooh," she rasped, shuddering.

"Can't handle it?" Alphard sympathized.

"Shouldn't handle it," interjected Nott. "Parkinson, we haven't got time-"

"Shut it, Nott," said Pansy loudly. She glanced at Alphard. "Of course I can handle it. Another round on you, then?" she asked haughtily, lifting her chin a bit. Alphard smirked and motioned to the bartender without looking away from Pansy.

"So it's this bloke then, that can't handle it," he confirmed, after he and Pansy had got fresh firewhiskeys. Nott worked his jaw furiously.

"I don't need to prove anything to you. I don't even know who you are," he said stiffly. In his irritation he looked even more rabbity. Alphard scoffed.

"Looks to me like you've got something to prove to nearly everybody," he snarked. He heard Pansy laugh as he levelly met Nott's gaze.

"Fine," he said acidly, before taking hold of the untouched firewhiskey. "If you insist on being such a pain about it," he continued, lifting the glass in a mock-salute to imitate Alphard's from earlier, "I will drink. But I'll have you know that I drink quite a bit of firewhiskey, and I am more capable of holding my liquor than a shorter man like yourself."

Alphard quirked a brow at Nott as he watched him down the amber liquid with expert swiftness. He recalled watching Nott and Granger drink together at the Leaky Cauldron, and at the time he'd merely assumed that Nott was, like most men like him, incapable of holding his liquor and drunk off one glass.

Nott set the empty glass down with nary a grimace, and Alphard felt a flicker of misgiving, as though he might've, perhaps, underestimated Nott.

"Round two, then?" Alphard prompted. This time, Nott was the one to motion over the bartender. He glanced at Alphard.

"If you're up for it," he said coolly.


	11. Madness

**Madness**

Hermione approached Nott Manor, wand at the ready. The Polyjuice Potion—likely expired—had worn off quickly, and now she was shivering in the too-large robes she had procured, trying to steel her courage.

_Nothing to do but do the thing itself,_ she thought wryly. And then she thought of Alphard. Thinking of him, and imagining his presence, brought the same warmth of courage that being with Harry had always brought—back during the Horcrux hunt.  _I'll be alright,_  she had always thought, when she would glance to her right and see Harry charging forward.

"I'll be alright," she murmured now, goosebumps prickling over her skin.

The manor appeared empty, though she knew that the House Elf, at least, was lurking somewhere. In the darkened, empty hall, Hermione cast a Disillusionment charm, and murmured  _hominem revelio,_  expecting to be notified of one presence.

But there were two.

Hermione inhaled sharply and considered sending a Patronus to Alphard, but didn't want to risk it. She edged backwards into the shadows, straining her ears for any sign of the other presence here. The old house creaked and groaned with the night noises that old houses always made, but there was nothing to indicate that anyone else was here.

And then she remembered Nott standing before her awkwardly, not so long ago, saying, _"well, my mother still lives there."_

How could she have possibly forgotten? Horrified at herself, she let out the breath she'd been holding. Likely, his mother was utterly incapacitated due to age—she was old enough to be a great-great-grandmother, after all, as Nott's parents had been of the original Death Eaters—and was not a real threat. Still, she had to be careful to not let her know she was here.

Shaking out the tension, Hermione peered around before nonverbally casting a few spells. It looked like both Nott's mother and the House Elf were upstairs, so she needn't worry. For now, all she needed was to get into the study. She tiptoed to the heavy doors that blocked off the study, and, holding her breath once more and wincing in anticipation of trouble, she turned the knob.

* * *

Pansy was wasted.

She could barely hold her head up, and kept melting down into her seat, looking dazed, her hair in utter disarray.

"Nott, give up," she whined. "I want to go home."

The two men watched as she began to cry. "I miss Drakey," she sniveled, wiping her nose with the heel of her hand. Alphard had to stifle a grin of excitement.

"Drakey?" he prompted innocently. But he felt Nott's gaze heavy on him, on the side of his face—the unscarred side—and goosebumps began to prickle along his skin.

_Fuck._

He had the creeping suspicion that Nott was realizing just who he was.

"Outside," Nott said in his ear. "Now."

Alphard decided that anything that happened was fine, as long as he kept Nott from returning to Nott manor. He mock-gallantly rose from his chair, as did Nott. Alphard had been hoping to see some sign of inebriation in Nott's movements, after nearly a pint of firewhiskey in the man's gut, but Nott seemed unaffected.

Alphard, on the other hand, though not drunk, felt slower and off-balance. The immensely powerful Sleeping draught that Granger had given him the previous night was still in his system, too, and he reckoned that was hardly helping matters.

"Of course," he said easily, as though he thought Nott simply wanted to step outside with him for some fresh air. He felt his wand in the pocket of his pants, and tried desperately to clear his head and prepare for the worst as he followed Nott out into the snow, leaving behind a baffled Pansy Parkinson.

Outside, the snow had lightened considerably. Up in the distance, Hogwarts castle glittered and glowed with Christmastime cheer. The Hog's Head, usually drafty and too cool, even at the height of summer, had been stuffy tonight, and the fresh air was a relief.

Or, he was just slightly more drunk than he had initially thought.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck_.

He just had to keep him talking, he reasoned, as he and Nott faced each other under the glow of a streetlamp.

"Following me around, then? I suppose the Auror department really is failing without Potter," Nott said acidly, drawing his wand. Alphard held up his hands.

"Sorry, what?"

"Black, I'd know that arrogance anywhere," Nott blustered. "I'm not an idiot. I'm far cleverer than you are, as a matter of fact. Why are you tailing me?"

Alphard waved his wand and the disguise melted away. He scoffed at Nott and pointed his wand.

"If you're so clever, then why don't you tell me?" he pointed out, lazily approaching Nott. Nott, to his credit, backed away.

"You're the Auror, yet I saw through your disguise instantly," said Nott, still backing away. They moved from the glow of the lamps towards the Shrieking Shack now. "And I had much better success tailing you, once upon a time."

"I knew you were following me the whole time, you arse," Alphard lied, feeling his face grow hot. The memory of being caught still could draw emotion from him, it seemed.

"You look just like your father," Nott said, as he paused. They were at the foot of the hill now, well away from the safety that the Hog's Head had provided simply by being populated. "Not that I ever saw him in person, of course. Just from the death notice in the Prophet."

"Does it bother you?" Alphard asked now, wanting to hurt him, wanting to hurt him worse than Nott had hurt him. "I mean, going to all that trouble—tailing me all around London, all the way to Grimmauld Place, all the way around that house, then bringing me back to the Ministry—still didn't get you that promotion? Does it bother you that even without capturing renegade Auror Alphard Black, Zabini still got that promotion instead of you?"

"Not really. I never wanted that promotion anyway," shot back Nott bitterly, holding his chin high now.

"What were you hoping to gain from it, then?"

"Just wanted you to know what it felt like," Nott said now, fuming. "Just wanted you to be humiliated as you humiliated me."

Alphard threw back his head and laughed now. It rang throughout the night and died in the harsh winds.

"Even _you're_  not that pathetic, Nott. No, there was something you wanted."

Something was niggling his mind, so he experimented. He drew his wand again and pointed it at Nott. All too easily, Nott raised his hands in surrender and backed away. Alphard didn't press him.

Nott was trying to lead him to the Shrieking Shack.

_Interesting. I wonder…_

It hit him now: this had to have been a plan. Because why, exactly, had he had the urge to go to the Hog's Head?

It had been strikingly like the sudden stroke of inspiration he'd had when searching for Potter with Weasley. Suddenly, he had known to go into the woods.

His blood ran cold with realization, and then boiling hot with rage. He was breathless though he was standing still.

He'd been put under the Imperius Curse, and it had been done so subtly, so expertly, and had aligned so well with his own real intentions, that he'd not noticed it.

He fought against the initial burst of horror, the initial impulse to  _Crucio_ Nott from here to the ends of the earth.

_Two can play that game, Nott._

Alphard inched forward, watching as Nott stepped back carefully.  _Little fucker,_  he thought bitterly, seeing red momentarily, blinded by it, before calming down again.

"You humiliated me in front of the girl I was in love with," Nott said, his words falling flat.

It was true: Alphard had done that, and he'd enjoyed it. He'd always gotten a kick out of humiliating pathetic, scheming, underhanded gits like Nott. But that wasn't why Nott had followed Alphard that day to Grimmauld Place, and it wasn't why Nott was doing this now.

"You're an awful liar, you know," said Alphard casually, walking faster, adrenaline coursing through him. "Besides, you don't even fancy Astoria anymore. Now that she's been tainted—"

His words had the desired effect. He watched color rush unevenly to Nott's rabbity face, and suddenly Nott was no longer backing away, pretending to surrender. They stood there on the hill, unsteady in the snow, with their wands drawn.

"Don't—" he said in a strangled voice.

"Oh yeah," continued Alphard viciously. "I know all about it. Someone else got to her first—even before Zabini—and it drives you crazy. Because she's still beautiful, but she's not valuable anymore to you, is she? Because you're just that pathetic, that you can't see a woman without—"

Nott's Hex glimmered in the night, mixing with the flurries. Alphard waved it aside easily, watching as Nott fired his next spell, with the same precision of all other duelers who had memorized their style from a book. Alphard had seen them before, and watched now as Nott ran through his shortlist of spells.  _Probably about five,_ Alphard mused, dodging another one with ease, watching Nott scramble to keep his posture in a 'defensive' and 'sturdy' position. He scoffed. What was the book called again? It was usually kept near the KwikSpell Course books…

Yes, Nott was masterful at other spellwork—particularly the Imperius Curse, apparently—but he was crap at dueling.

"Oh, I'm going to enjoy this _far_  too much," Alphard said, pushing up his sleeves as he dodged a repeat of Nott's shortlist of curses.

And then it began in earnest.

* * *

The study looked precisely as it had before. Hermione crept inside, the silence ringing in her ears. It was warmer in this room, and the heavy velvet drapes blocked out any sign of the snow outside.

The desk, however, was different. The surface was utterly clean, with no sign of the parchment that had covered it before. Hermione warily approached it and uttered a few spells; as suspected, Nott had placed detection spells all over it.

With those spells down, Hermione began rifling through the drawers of the desk as quickly as she could. She didn't doubt Alphard's ability to keep Nott occupied, but she knew that there was only so long he could keep him away. She didn't have forever, and she had a feeling Nott had anticipated someone would come looking for something here.

_What if it was something else?_ What if Nott was worried about some  _other_  important document being found? Hermione had no idea of what that would be, but the level of magic protecting this desk—as well as the fact that it had clearly been emptied out recently—told her Nott was feeling more than a little paranoid at the moment.

She tore through the study, but there was nothing of remote import here. But now she was in crisis mode—it felt just like during the war. She'd forgotten her own fear and was now hell-bent on finding what she had come for, and anything else she saw fit. She made a beeline for the door and left the study, and looked to the rickety staircase. Not too long ago, she had half-carried Nott up those stairs. Now she cast a few more defensive spells before making her way upstairs. Nott wouldn't have moved all his documents to his room, but there had to be another room in this house that he'd move them to. He wouldn't risk keeping anything important at his own flat—Ministry officials' homes got searched all the time, especially the smaller ones, simply because they were the quickest jobs to search and clear. He would never be so stupid.

She crept along the upstairs hall, deep in thought. Often she found that she and Nott had the same ideas, drew the same conclusions—so where would she keep such a document? If she had a document that she knew could potentially implicate her or her close friends in a serious crime, where would she hide it?

She settled on the answer so quickly, so instinctively, that she knew with a sinking horror that it was the right place. She paused in front of the one shut door along the hallway, able to sense in a very human way that this was where Nott's mother was.

_I'd hide it where it would be least suspected to be. I'd hide it where it would make zero sense to keep important documents._

… _I'd hide it where it would be most inconvenient for someone to look._

Hermione bit her lip, mentally running through all of the spells she knew. She could limb-lock Mrs Nott and the House Elf, and Obliviate them, but Nott would know there had been a disturbance, because the aftereffects of the Obliviate spell were especially evident in the elderly and in magical creatures, and if Nott were as careful as she—which he was—then he'd be on the lookout for any signs of intrusion. So that was out.

She'd have to lure out at least the House Elf, she reasoned. She'd have to get them out of the room long enough for her to have a quick look, and then be gone before they came back. But if Mrs Nott was as old as Hermione guessed, then she would be highly unlikely to be capable of leaving her bed.

_Well done, Nott,_ Hermione thought with reluctant admiration.

She could at least get rid of the House Elf. Hopefully as long as she kept up her Disillusionment Charm, Mrs Nott wouldn't notice her.

_This is all very Harry-like behavior,_ she mused as she drew her wand and pointed it at the creaking, magnificent, dust-covered crystal chandelier at the ceiling, hanging in the center of the staircase. It would drop to the ground floor and shatter if it fell. Destructive, noisy, and not remotely planned in the least.  _Or, possibly Alphard-like behavior._

She cast  _diffindo_  and watched the crystal chandelier zoom downwards in a puff of dust. The noise of glass shattering was like a gunshot that shook the whole manor.

Someone screamed just as the locked door opened and the House Elf appeared.

There was just one problem.

That had definitely  _not_  been the scream of an elderly woman. Or a House Elf.

That had been the scream of a young woman.

Younger than her.

"I fix it, Mistress Nott!" the House Elf squeaked as it Apparated to the ground floor, leaving the door hanging open.

Hermione peered round the doorframe, into the room.

Seated on the bed was a young woman of perhaps eighteen, wearing a stuffy white nightdress that belonged on an elderly woman. She had ash-blonde hair just like Nott's, with the same wifty texture, falling in uneven waves to her waist. She had Nott's rabbity face, too.

And on her forehead, the anastasis had been carved.

* * *

Nott's 'perfect' dueling posture crumpled as they dueled. He slipped and skidded in the snow, blood dribbling from a gash in his forehead, unable to keep up with Alphard.

The inebriation from earlier had abated, and now Alphard felt exhilarated, and in control. He stalked around Nott's slouched figure, his heart racing. There was nothing more satisfying than dueling, although he anticipated that satisfaction wearing off. He far preferred an equal match, and Nott was barely a challenge for him.

Nott attempted to disarm him, but Alphard casually flicked aside the spell and fired a simple but powerful Hex that knocked Nott over, to his knees. Alphard approached him now, the wind and snow howling around him, whipping his hair round his face.

"Where is Ginny Weasley?" he demanded, slightly out of breath. Nott looked away, wiping at the blood streaming from his nose from an earlier, more brutal Hex.

"I dob no," he insisted, his voice warped and nasal from the injury to his nose. "Probably wib Botter," he added, shaking his head. Alphard threw his head back and laughed.

"Oh, come  _on_ , Nott. You were obviously leading me to the Shrieking Shack, so let's not pretend you're innocent here. Why were you leading me there, anyway?"

"Wasn't leabig you," Nott said, attempting to stand and failing to do so. Alphard disarmed him and watched Nott's wand fly out of his hand and land in the snow several meters away. He enjoyed the look of anguish on Nott's face. He knew the anguish of being disarmed, of knowing your wand was not within reach. It was a naked vulnerability, and it was worse than any Hex.

"Why did you put me under the Imperius Curse? Answer truthfully or I'll  _Crucio_  you," Alphard continued, pacing closer to Nott. His throat was growing hoarse from shouting above the winds and he wondered if Granger had found anything. He also wondered what his next steps could possibly be—he'd have to take Nott into custody, and if Granger had found no hard evidence, then he'd be in serious trouble.  _You better have been right, Granger,_  he thought ruefully.

Nott didn't answer. Alphard watched him struggle and fail to find his footing repeatedly. It was a most pathetic sight. "Well?" Alphard demanded now.

Nearby he heard a door slam shut; he looked up, and a tall figure had exited the Shrieking Shack. Alphard saw Nott crawling towards his wand out the corner of his eye, and he absently cast the wand even further away as he watched the figure approach.

As the figure drew closer, the snow cleared, and Alphard let out an oath when he realized who it was.

Amundsen was stalking towards him.

* * *

Hermione bit back a scream as she watched Mrs Nott reach for a wand on her bedside table.

She had been feeling more Harry-like, yes, but this was idiocy, to attempt to handle this situation without backup. Hermione edged backward and hastily swiped her wand, causing a series of photographs along the wall on the staircase to be knocked to the ground, their glass shattering. In the commotion of the noise, she Apparated outside, out of the Manor, and back into the swirling snow.

Her heart was pounding, her keen mind working a mile a minute, but she could draw no conclusions. She turned on the spot once more, and Apparated back to Hogsmeade. She had to get Alphard, she had to tell him… This was all far more complicated than she had initially thought.

She sprinted towards the Hog's Head, but a sight on the hill of the Shrieking Shack caught her eye and caused her to skid to a stop. Red and green light flew back and forth—there was a duel going on. Panicking even more, Hermione steeled her will and raced up the hill, scrambling in the slippery snow.

Alphard's disguise was gone—he was back to his jeans and jacket now, and was skillfully dueling…with Amundsen. Her heart gave a great shudder as her gaze landed on him. He was wild and reckless and was clearly attempting to utter the Killing Curse—but Alphard was, mercifully, too quick, and he kept not managing to quite get it out.

And then, beyond Alphard, Nott's prone form lay in the snow. He looked dead.

She thought she might throw up. Hermione was frozen in her tracks—what to do? Amundsen must have come from the Shrieking Shack, which meant that Erica was likely there, as well.

She looked between the Shrieking Shack and Alphard in utter conflict. Alphard, being the Auror that he was, would tell her to go to the Shrieking Shack and look for Erica while he kept Amundsen distracted.

But she couldn't leave him and Nott. Nott was too important to understanding the case, and the idea of leaving him for dead…

Still invisible, she crept forward, brandishing her wand, her hands shaking and clammy.

_Alarte ascendere,_  she nonverbally cast, scrunching her eyes shut before firing the spell.

Amundsen let out a blood-curdling scream as Alphard's  _expelliarmus_  hit him at the same time; Amundsen's wand went flying as he was thrown upwards into the air. Alphard wasted no time looking for her and rushed forward to Amundsen and snatched up his wand.

" _Diffin—agh!"_

Alphard was thrown forward and to the snow; Nott was on shaky feet behind him, his wand pointed at Alphard's back.

_How dare he!_

She would have bet her life, before, that Nott would never have stooped so low to attack someone from behind; why she would have been so certain of this, she could not place, save for her own hope and trust that she had built in Nott.

She had to clamp her mouth shut with her own hand to avoid giving away her position.  _Locomotor wibbly,_ she cast at Nott.  _Expelliarmus. Accio Nott's wand._

Nott's wand soared through the air towards her as Nott fell forward as well. Alphard let out a groan and pushed himself up on unsteady limbs as Amundsen let out a low moan of pain several meters away.

"You pathetic little sneak," Alphard snarled at Nott. His posture was just like that of Sirius', all lean, svelte lines of motion, but the look in his eyes was purely Bellatrix. " _Crucio._ "

He'd said it so carelessly, but he'd  _meant_  it.

Nott let out a scream that rang through the night, and Alphard lifted the curse. He cast  _locomotor mortis_ , the muscles in his back tight with rage.

But Amundsen had regained himself, and lunged for Alphard, knocking the wands out of his hands and knocking him to the snow.

Rage blinded Hermione. She turned away from Alphard and Amundsen, and, tears streaming down her cheeks, sprinted into the Shrieking Shack, knowing she needed to call for backup, knowing that there simply was no time to do anything.

As soon as she entered, she was greeted by the sight of Ginny struggling against her binds, slowly and ineffectively sawing at the rope tying her hands together with a jagged piece of glass. She had missed the rope a lot, apparently, because blood was streaming down her hands.

"Ginny! Oh Merlin," Hermione cried, letting up the Disillusionment Charm and rushing toward her friend. She unbound Ginny and released the gag in her mouth, and Ginny let out a cry of relief and threw her arms around Hermione.

"Oh my god, oh my god," she wept. "I'm so glad—I thought—"

"It's okay," Hermione soothed, her own voice unsteady.

The door banged open then; Hermione pushed away from Ginny, holding up her wand, but it was only Alphard. He had to lean against the doorframe; blood dribbled down his face and along his neck, staining the collar of his shirt and plastering his hair to his skin; he was dangerously pale; he was shaking like a leaf.

"Amundsen Apparated. Took Nott with him," said Alphard flatly. "I tried to grab on but he kicked me off," he added, pointing to the newer-looking gash on his forehead.

"We need to get you both to St Mungo's," said Hermione, unable to look Alphard in the eye. She couldn't unsee it. The look in his eyes as he'd said it.  _Crucio._ "And, I need to look for Erica." Why couldn't she stop shaking? Why did she feel like she was right back at Malfoy Manor? Every time she glanced at Alphard now—

"They took a little girl," Ginny said, her voice still unsteady with tears. She hiccoughed another sob as she pointed at the door to the rest of the shack. "They already moved her. I don't know where."

Alphard and Hermione glanced at each other; she was hit with another burst of agony. For a split second once more, she was thrown back to that day, so many years ago, at Malfoy Manor.

When their eyes met, however, so many unsaid things were said with that simple look. Her heart was in her throat and her body felt like lead. Seeing Nott attack Alphard from behind had been disappointing and surprising…but seeing Alphard use an Unforgivable had been another feeling altogether. It was a deeper betrayal. She felt like a fool. And he knew it.

They held on together and Apparated after Hermione sent another Patronus to Whelkes, telling him to keep on Pansy's tail.

* * *

When they reappeared at St Mungo's, they avoided Harry's room broadly. Tough to a fault as always, Ginny had insisted that the last thing Molly needed was to see the state Ginny was in. They escorted Ginny to a Healer's room and Hermione and Alphard both sent Patronuses to Kingsley, Furness, and to Arthur, alerting them to having found Ginny.

"You need to be stitched up," said Hermione after they reconvened in the hall outside Ginny's room. Alphard mopped his face then examined his hands. The dim lighting cast his face in high relief, and the blood looked black.

"Looks like the bleeding's stopped. I'll be fine. Just will wash off my face," he said offhandedly.

For a moment they stood there in silence, unable to look at each other. She should have been telling him what she had found, but she couldn't make her mouth form the words.

"I'm so—" she began in a shaking voice, but stopped.

"So mad you saw me use an Unforgivable?" Alphard's voice was weary.

Hermione's gaze shot to him. He was regarding her with his brows arched, but it wasn't a look of condescension or dubiousness. "Granger, Aurors use them all the time. They're damned efficient. Try going on a mission with your precious Potter sometime and you'll probably see him use at least one." He groaned and massaged the bridge of his nose. "Nott had me under the Imperius Curse, and I reckon—"

"How can you say that," Hermione interrupted. Alphard snorted at her.

"Because it's true," he said plainly. "Granted, Potter's more moral than the rest of us and isn't as likely to use the Unforgivables, but it's still a possibility you keep in your back pocket." He paused, looking far-off for a moment. "Besides, I owed Nott."

She still couldn't look at him.

"Let's just stitch you up," she said disgustedly. She found an open room and, not feeling too caring about the rules, set to work looking for Dittany. She had a flash of déjà vu as she heard Alphard take a seat on the hospital bed.

She glanced back at him; he was staring at the floor. He looked old. "I don't know if I can forgive you," she confessed in a small voice as she resumed her search for Dittany. To her surprise, Alphard simply laughed.

"Fitting that they're called the Unforgivables, then, eh?"

"Do you not care? Do you not care if I forgive you?" she demanded, straightening and turning to look at him again. The pain of this notion was searing, blinding.  _He doesn't care._ That epiphany was the deepest cut of all.

Alphard rested his elbows on his knees, leaning forward, regarding her with a certain world-weariness.

"I'll survive," he said coolly. "I did what I had to do."

"Actually, you didn't—Amundsen escaped," she shot back, her voice heated in contrast. Alphard's lip curled.

"Suppose you're right," he said archly, sitting up straight. "Anything else you want to ream me out for, or are you done?"

"I—" Her voice became strangled. "I want to—"

"You what," he demanded now, his voice hardening, his eyes darkening. "What do  _you_  want, Granger? Is this about your stupid bloody  _feelings_  again—"

"You're supposed to stand for  _more!_  As an Auror, as a member of the Ministry, we're supposed to be  _better_  than the Dark Arts!" she cried now, feeling tears stream down her cheeks. Alphard got to his feet and laughed at her. It was an awful sound.

"Oh my god," he mused. "You're _actually_  still  _that_  naïve. Granger, there is no difference between good and evil—good is just the side that is legally sanctioned."

"You don't actually believe that," she argued. "I know you don't. I know you fight for what you think is right."

"Yes, I do," he conceded, "and sometimes what  _I_  think is right isn't what  _you_  think is right. But that doesn't make me evil, all right? You're so  _fucking_ inflexible!" he shouted, raising his hands in the air almost helplessly. "You are so in love with your fucking moral compass, and you idolize Potter, and you hate everything that isn't what you think is perfect!"

He had betrayed her, her personally, by using the Cruciatus Curse. He had proven what everyone had said about him all along. He had insulted the memory of Sirius, and brought back all of those dark memories involving Bellatrix and Malfoy Manor. With that one word, that one  _look,_  he had cut her more deeply that anyone else had, in a very,  _very_  long time.

She wanted to shove him, wanted to hurt him, hurt him as he had hurt her, but when she reached forward, he did as well.

And then against all odds their lips met.

They crashed into each other, and she was slammed backwards into the bank of cabinets behind her just as her fingers wound tightly into the fabric of his shirt, which was drenched with melted snow. She could taste firewhiskey and blood and she could smell the last traces of the scent he always wore, barely hinted at under the scent of snow and blood, and then, underneath that, the scent of his skin, that she hadn't realized she could identify, and it was  _that_  scent that seemed to drive her mad, almost as mad as the notion of his betrayal.

She couldn't begin to understand—what was this? His hands—they were strong; the grip was painfully tight—gripped her upper arms as they fell against each other, clumsy and helpless.

And yet, for one searing, blinding moment, she forgot: she forgot about Harry, about Amundsen, about Tracey, about Ron—she forgot about everything altogether. It was like her mind's eye had been bleached white. For one instant, things were simple and easy.

She wanted him so badly she could kill him.

It was over as soon as it had begun. Like parchment being ripped apart, Alphard tore back, leaving them both breathless and confused as they regarded each other unsteadily. Alphard let out a breath and sat back onto the cot gingerly, still holding her gaze. His eyes were so dark, so seductive in their depth, in how he challenged her with every sly look, every slight quirk of his smooth lips.

Neither could pretend they hadn't initiated or wanted the kiss. Now they were left with the horrible, jumbled, chaotic aftermath of that one singing moment of clarity. Reality was too conflicted and confusing, and for once, Hermione would have preferred to live in fantasy. It was easier in that world. In that world she could have simply kissed Alphard and they could have moved on with their lives. But now they had returned to real life, and she was filled with profound regret.

"We shouldn't have—"

"Forget it," Alphard said hastily. "That's always how it is after a duel—"

"—Emotions running high—"

"—Too much adrenaline; too much intensity—"

"—Let's just—"

"—Yeah. I'll just get a Healer to—"

"—Sounds good."

Hermione fled the room; she kept her head down and nearly bowled over Kingsley.

"Hermione!"

"Sorry, Kingsley," she sighed, mopping her face. She couldn't look him in the eye.

She was supposed to be supervising Alphard, and, had she been doing her job properly, she would have reported Alphard's use of the Cruciatus Curse to Kingsley. After all, no matter what Alphard said, the use of it was against the law. "I take it you've been updated," she surmised grimly, choosing to sidestep the issue for now. She was inflamed; she couldn't think clearly. Kingsley nodded and led her down the hall.

"Black's in here, correct? Now I'll update you both," he explained, motioning for her to go in first. Hermione took a moment to remind herself that she was professional and fully capable of pretending nothing had just happened…as long as Alphard was.

Inside the room, Alphard still sat on the cot, waiting for a Healer. He looked up in surprise when Hermione entered, but his expression hardened into business when Kingsley appeared in the doorway. Relief and reluctant respect soothed her for at least a moment. Kingsley shut the door behind himself.

"So now both Amundsen and Nott are at large," Kingsley began, after shutting the door and putting up wards. "Can someone explain to me how all of this came about?"

Alphard and Hermione glanced at each other and Alphard nodded subtly to Hermione. The deference after how he had been shouting at her just moments before was jarring.

"When we went after Tracey and Erica, we located a mobile phone that had been tossed out the window, consistent with reports from Whelkes that he had seen Tracey throw something out the window that morning. We weren't sure of its significance, so we kept it. Yesterday, we went to Zabini's townhome—"

"—You're not on the Zabini case," Kingsley pointed out, but Alphard picked up.

"We thought there was a chance they were connected, especially after Potter was located with that symbol on his forehead. Well, I should say, Granger thought they were. As usual, her hunch was dead-on. We had reason to suspect that Nott was involved, and Granger went to Nott's family manor to investigate while I kept him occupied at the Hog's Head. However, I strongly suspect that I was placed under the Imperius Curse at least twice."

Hermione felt sick. She had almost forgotten seeing Nott attack Alphard from behind. Now it all came back.

"You damn well better tread carefully here, Black. These are not allegations to be treated lightly," warned Kingsley.

Alphard ignored Kingsley and continued on. "The first time was when I located Potter's body—at the time, I had a strong intuition that Weasley and I should investigate in the woods outside of Malfoy Manor. I was led  _right to_  Potter's body. The second time was today. We hadn't initially intended on the plan that unfolded—I again had a strong sense to go to the Hog's Head, where I encountered Nott with Pansy Parkinson."

Kingsley arched his brows in dubiousness.

"I had assigned Peter Whelkes to tail Parkinson and to alert me to any behavior since I'd seen her hanging round Malfoy Manor for no reason, so at that point, Whelkes showed up at the Hog's Head as well," Hermione continued quickly. "So I joined them, under a disguise, but Black and I planned that I would go to Nott Manor, as I had been intending before Whelkes got in touch with me, and Black would keep Nott occupied. I went to Nott Manor looking for a certain document regarding Pansy and Malfoy's marriage, but instead found a young woman there who looked exactly like Nott-I had never seen her before and the House Elf there referred to her as Mistress Nott—with the anastasis carved into her forehead, just like Harry. But I didn't want to risk a confrontation, so I returned to the Hog's Head to plan further with Black, but at that point spotted him dueling with both Amundsen and Nott nearby the Shrieking Shack."

She felt Alphard staring at her; his gaze was, as always, burning. She hugged herself, in a pathetic attempt to reduce her vulnerability to it.

"This is a mess," said Kingsley plainly, after a moment. "One of our top Jurators is dead, the other is at large and has just been—if you really mean what you say, Black—accused of using one of the Unforgivable Curses. On an Auror, no less. Amundsen kidnapped Ginny Weasley-she Is still in too much shock to be properly interviewed—and now has gotten away with Nott."

At the mention of the Unforgivables, Hermione reflexively met Alphard's eyes. She wanted to break away and look at something—anything—else, but their eyes locked.

He wasn't afraid of her telling Kingsley he had used the Cruciatus Curse, she could see that much, but that wasn't what bothered her. She couldn't unsee the way he'd tossed the Cruciatus Curse, like it had been any other Hex.

But at the same time, she couldn't erase the burn of his grip on her arms, or the scent of his skin, or the feel of his lips against hers.

"We need to interview Ginny. We need to track down Nott and Amundsen. We need to interview Pansy Parkinson," said Hermione heavily, finally breaking away from Alphard's gaze. "We need to get back to Nott Manor, and figure out who that woman was."

"Whelkes can bring Parkinson into custody," Kingsley reasoned. "We'll need to give Ginny Weasley some time with Potter—"

"-What?! Why?" Hermione demanded, leaning forward, her keen mind racing through all of the awful possible meanings behind his words. Kingsley let out a soft laugh.

"I almost forgot to tell you in all of this confusion—Potter woke up a few hours ago. He remembers nothing, of course, and even subjected himself to Veritaserum. But whoever Obliviated him did quite the number."

"He did? I need to—"

"No. You need to finish this, Hermione," Kingsley snapped. "There will be plenty of time to talk to Potter later."

He sighed. "Do whatever you need to do. I'll inform Furness of the necessary resources. We can go over all of this later—there isn't enough time for you to explain everything in detail right now. Granger, patch up Black—there aren't enough Healers on staff at the moment for something this small—and then get back to work."

Kingsley's word was final. They watched him leave the room, and then they were alone again.

"We need a plan," Hermione murmured as she finally located the Dittany. She stood before Alphard. He was regarding her with a wry half-smile that she couldn't read the meaning behind. "Hold still," she added as she hesitated before reaching forward and pushing aside his hair. He didn't flinch as the Dittany hit his cuts.

"What a day, eh?" he said finally. Hermione scoffed.

"What a month. Merlin, I'm just...I'm too tired to be tired. I just exist."

"You're amazing."

She almost dropped the bottle.

"What?"

"This is all you, Granger," Alphard said now as she pulled away. "You figured out the connection. You've figured it all out."

"Not all of it," she said reluctantly, resuming healing Alphard's cuts. "Not most of it, in fact." She paused, feeling her face flush. "And I'm not amazing. I'm... let's see...naive? Idolizing Potter? What else was it?"

"They're not mutually exclusive," teased Alphard easily now. "You can be naive and in love with your own flawed moral compass and yet still be amazing at the same time."

"Oh, good. For a second there, I was almost concerned," she snarked now. "There, good enough. We've got work to do."

* * *

Alphard followed Granger down the hall, his muscles weak and shaking from his duel. He didn't want sleep, though. He felt like a live wire, exhilarated, but confused. Especially after the kiss—what had that been? Where had it come from?

One minute they had been arguing with each other, and the rhythm of it had been so utterly satisfying. He had realized in that moment that he thoroughly enjoyed picking fights with Granger. He knew he enjoyed debating in general, but with Granger, to see her look of infuriation was uniquely satisfying to him. So he'd gone further, loving the rage that he incited as he picked at each place of insecurity—her love for Potter, particularly—and then...somehow he'd lost control.

And he'd loved every second of it, that feeling of free-fall as he'd pushed her against the cabinets and gripped her arms. And feeling her fists knot in his shirt, simultaneously pushing and pulling him—it was like a revelation in physics, like they were two equal but opposite forces, each unable to totally overpower the other. Pushing against and pulling away from each other, in that brief kiss, the world had felt balanced for one strange and unsettling moment. Like everything had come to rest, like there was one instant of calm—and then...entropy again.

And in that moment of clarity he had so easily accepted the truth: that he'd wanted to kiss her all along. Why had it been such an easy, simple thing, in that moment? Why in that moment, when in every other moment, the thought carried unbearable potency and fire?  _Of course I want to kiss her,_ he had thought in that instant. And now he was shying away from it like the sun again.

"We'll go to Nott Manor first," Granger reasoned. "But first I have some things I need to get from my flat." Alphard lengthened his strides to match her pace. They left St Mungo's without seeing Potter, and Alphard was secretly glad for it. But then he could not bear to linger on that thought, and so, stowed it away. Maybe he'd consider it at a later time. For now, he just wanted to focus on this.

"Did you find the contract?" he asked as they entered the near-dawn. The snow had stopped, and all was quiet.

"No, of course not," said Granger bitterly. "He moved it. That was why I even went looking for Mrs Nott at all."

"And she was young again?" Alphard marveled. "Do you think it's connected to the anastasis?"

"Well, almost all of the other victims of Amundsen were elderly," Hermione remarked slowly. "It does lead me to suspect..."

"Suspect what?" Alphard pressed.

"I don't know," lied Hermione. The idea of the anastasis… Something was still niggling the back of her mind. Alphard snorted.

" _You don't know_. Right, just because we snogged, it doesn't mean you've got to feed me that crap."

Hermione froze in her tracks and cringed.

"Fine." She whirled around to face him. "I think the anastasis is some sort of rune that has to do with undoing the effects of aging—and therefore, of dying, since Harry wasn't dead and he really should have been by all accounts. I think Amundsen has been working on this for a long time and has been testing out his hypothesis on older subjects. I think Nott somehow got dragged into this."

Alphard arched his brows at her incredulously.

"' _Somehow_  got  _dragged_  into this?!' You did see him try to attack me from behind, right?"

"Yes, and I also saw you turn around and use the Cruciatus Curse without a second thought," said Hermione crisply. They began walking again. "And you yourself were just implying you had your own reasons for doing that. Well, this is me saying that  _everyone_  has their own reasons for doing things that sound perfectly rational in their own mind, but look wrong—or even  _illegal—_ to everyone else."

"Alright, then what would Nott's reasons be?"

"His mother," she said simply.

Alphard seemed to drop his stubbornness now. He sighed in thought.

"I don't know, Granger. I agree with you about the anastasis, but not about Nott's involvement."

"You just hate him," she pointed out. Alphard scoffed.

"Yes, with good reason, Granger. He's sneaky and has a  _lot_  of reason to hate Zabini. And Malfoy. What's that they always say? Slytherin for a reason?"

"How would you know about that?"

"Pucey. And Daph," he added as an afterthought.

"Well,  _you're_  friends with the lot of them," she said defensively.

"Yeah, but I don't think I'd've been sorted into Slytherin," Alphard mused.

They came to The Leaky Cauldron now. Alphard held open the door.

"No?" Hermione asked in surprise, pausing in the doorway to look up at him. Her heart shuddered—they were too close, again. Alphard smirked at her.

"Nope. Even though I am evil," he added cheekily.

They entered the crowded pub. Witches and wizards from all over were in advanced stages of inebriation, and the evening was beginning to wind down. It was well after midnight now, after all. "You know, I spotted you and Nott here that night," Alphard began, as they wended through the crowd.

"Oh, yes—that seems like ages ago now."

"You know, I think he could have  _easily_  outdrank me tonight. Even if you take away the height difference, I think he's a seasoned drinker."

"He got drunk pretty quickly that night with me," said Hermione distastefully now. They reached the back of the pub and stood before the doorway.

"Yeah, which makes me think he must have already been drinking quite a bit that day. Because tonight…" he trailed off, recalling the challenge in Nott's eyes. "I think he might have a drinking problem," he blurted out, looking almost surprised at himself.

Hermione let out a sigh and looked out the doorway at the falling snow in the night.

"There's a piece we're missing," she reiterated. "And I don't know what it is."

"It's Astoria. She'll know why Zabini got in touch with Tracey," said Alphard, leaning against the doorframe and gazing down at her thoughtfully. "What do you need at your flat, anyway? …It's a book, isn't it?"

Hermione said nothing as she tried to summon a clever response.

"Look at the lovely couple having a row, eh? Give us a kiss—you're under mistletoe anyway!"

Hermione and Alphard turned to scowl at the speaker—indeed, it was an elderly man, strongly reminiscent of Slughorn in his ebullience. "Come on, no need to have a row—it's nearly Christmas, after all," the man twinkled.

"For the love of—" Hermione muttered, but she felt fingertips on her chin.

Alphard guided her to look at him. She fought against the equal and competing urges to both Hex his arm off and throw herself at him and snog him senseless.

"He's right, you know, sweetheart," Alphard said mock-seriously. "Christmas is a _terrible_  time to have a row."

"Feeling awfully brave, are we?" Hermione asked witheringly, glancing demonstratively down at his fingers which were still holding her chin.

"Y'know, I  _do_  think I'd've been a Gryffindor," he said softly, half-smiling at her.

"Your dad was," she blurted out. She nearly clapped a hand over her mouth, but instead held her breath, waiting for him to run away, waiting for him to attack her. He did neither. He gazed at her, still holding her chin. His fingers, calloused, slid to her jawline, then to the tangled hair at the nape of her neck.

"Yeah," he finally admitted, his voice low and rough, "he was."

"Never call me sweetheart again. Ever," Hermione shot at him, her voice a whisper. She felt her hands shaking.

He'd cast the Cruciatus Curse and he'd meant it.

But he'd also done a lot of other things—a lot of good things.

_My tattoo. It means shame._

And a whole lot of things she had no idea about.

"Sorry, darling," he teased with a sly grin. She felt him begin to pull his fingers away, and she reflexively grabbed his wrist, holding his hand in place.

"You hide yourself from me, from everyone," she accused in a hiss. "You're hardly Gryffindor material."

"You run away from your feelings," he parried easily, without venom, "and you chronically sell yourself short. You date unworthy blokes and lust after ones you don't even really want. You get wrapped up in your feelings every time you're about to do something amazing—something that might eclipse Potter—because even though you've been the top of your class all your life, you're afraid to be better than everyone else. You self-destruct every time you're about to be the best in something other than school. There's no way you should be a Jurator, because it's a waste, but you're afraid to outdo Potter as an Auror."

He listed it all off so levelly, as though reciting the members of Parliament.

"We don't have time for this," she blustered.

"No, we don't," he agreed mildly.

He leaned forward and kissed her on the corner of her mouth.


	12. Mercy

Mercy

* * *

_Two Years Ago_

* * *

The barren trees were stark black against the gunmetal sky. Pansy stood before Malfoy Manor, just barely able to detect the sounds of what was likely a raucous party going on inside.

As Draco's fiancée, she was a guest of honor and should have already been inside. Underneath her heavy winter cloak, she had selected a dramatic black velvet dress that accentuated her assets with zero subtlety. She wanted  _everyone_  to notice her on Draco's arm.

But she couldn't enter. She stared at the heavy door, listening to the wind drag the dead leaves across the gravel. The fountain had been charmed to run in spite of the frosty temperatures—it was colder than usual for November—and that was the only noticeable sound, but a sharp  _crack_  broke the relative peace.

"Parkinson."

Theodore Nott had Apparated a mere few meters away, clad in his usual odd, old-fashioned, high-necked cloak. She could have sworn she detected a burst of firewhiskey, and she almost laughed at him. He was like some sort of leading man in a Bronte sister's novel, with his harrowed appearance, reeking of firewhiskey and with a gaze colder than the November air.

She'd never admit it, but she highly enjoyed  _some_  Muggle literature.

"Nott," she greeted, pressing her lips together to keep from openly laughing at him. She knew he'd seen her inner struggle because he arched his brows just a tiny bit, as though to ridicule  _her_ for wanting to laugh at  _him…_ as though it should have been the other way round. "I'm surprised to see you here, on account of how pissy you seemed last week at Pucey's Halloween party."

"As long as that Black fellow's not here, I'll be pleasant enough," Nott conceded. He moved to stand next to her, and now she got the full effect of his scent.

Nott was a drunk. As in, he had a  _problem._

"You'll be alone in that," she said lightly.

"Well, what's got you standing out here in the cold?"

She'd always disliked Nott.

That was why she refused to let him do hers and Draco's pre-nuptial contract.

He hated her, he hated most women, and it showed in every single move he made.

"Just liking the fresh air, alright?" she snapped, feeling her face grow warm.

"Of course," Nott snorted. "You've always been known for your love of the outdoors."

"Fuck off." She gathered her skirts and went to the door. "You smell like firewhiskey and vomit," she tossed over her shoulder, before holding her chin high and making her entrance.

Inside was dark and noisy. Draco was here somewhere, most likely followed by that weirdo Amundsen, who lately seemed to be joined at the hip with Draco. He was creepy, and looked at some women—namely, Astoria Greengrass—with even more hunger and possessiveness than other men like Nott did.

As though bathed in her own private moonbeam, Astoria Greengrass practically glowed silver and gold even in the dim lighting as she floated past Pansy. Everyone else wore dark colors—black, forest green, and so on—but she was wearing a gown of silvery gold, the same shade as her hair, and all eyes followed her beauty helplessly.

"Pans," Draco came up to her. He looked wired. Too energized. She knew that look, and she felt her stomach drop. He slung an arm round her waist and kissed her wetly on the lips.

Sure enough over Draco's svelte black-clad shoulder she spotted that bloke, Amundsen, hanging about, looking impatient. And then his swarthy gaze alighted on Astoria, and he seemed to forget he'd been waiting for Draco as he followed her and pursued her immediately. Astoria looked unhappy when he grasped her by the wrist, pulling her in close. He would have described it as a flirtatious move, she was sure, had he been asked—men like that always played it that way—but it was anything but friendly. It was predatory.

"Nott's outside," Pansy said, pulling away from Draco.

"I'm so interested," Draco deadpanned. He shot Pansy a private smirk, the kind he used to give her all the time, and she felt her lips irresistibly tugging into a grin that mirrored his. He smelled good, like that spicy cologne that was in style right now, and like elf-made wine, and not in a way that suggested he'd been drinking it on and off for days by himself—the way Nott had reeked of firewhiskey.

"Oh, don't start without me," came a deep drawl. Pansy glanced up to see Zabini had entered with Nott, clad in deep blue robes that made his eyes all the more piercing. She felt Draco's grip at her waist tighten.  _Uh oh_ —was Draco in trouble with Zabini?

Draco had only just barely conceded to allowing Zabini to write up their pre-nuptial contract. His reluctance had been weird—almost as weird as the tension in the room when they'd all met to work through the agreement last week.

"Parkinson, you look fetching," Zabini added, after finally breaking his gaze from Draco. His eyes roved over her dress. Zabini had always had an eye for style. "Bloody smashing dress, that is."

"Cheers, Blaise," she said carelessly. But he was already gone—she saw his gaze catch on what she assumed was Astoria Greengrass. They had certainly been flirting last week at Pucey's party. "For fuck's sake, is  _everyone_  into Greengrass' sister?" she complained loudly, watching Nott, Draco, and Zabini staring at her talking uncomfortably with Amundsen in the corner.

"Essentially, yes—" Zabini began, but Nott blushed unattractively.

" _No_."

"Slytherin, men are really stupid," she groaned, turning away and pulling out of Draco's grasp. With a loud sigh, she stamped off in the direction of Pucey and his newfound friend Alphard Black.  _Poor Nott,_ she thought with a smirk.

"Parkinson—the belle of the ball," Pucey greeted, already drunk, of course. He was practically a Hufflepuff, the way he good-naturedly bumbled about life. Pansy rolled her eyes.

"Oh, sod off, Puce. I'm not the belle of the ball or whatever. Everyone's mad for a shag with Greengrass' sister," she complained cattily, wincing when she realized she had let just a little  _too_ much unhappiness leak out in her tone. Alphard Black, who was carefully nursing his firewhiskey, arched his brows at her.

Salazar if he didn't look just like Bellatrix, though. Goosebumps prickled along her skin every time she saw him. It was in the eyes. "Maybe  _you_  should date her," she added carelessly to Alphard Black, tossing her hair. "You're the bloke everyone wants to shag, she's the girl everyone wants to shag. A match made in heaven. And neither of you even  _belong_  here," she continued. Alphard snorted.

"You've certainly a unique sense of etiquette," he remarked playfully. He slung an arm round her shoulders, and she was hit with a rare and fresh scent that made her think of water and sunlight and oranges. It was out of place here in this dark, stuffy party and utterly in contrast with the heavy, deep scent that Draco favored. "But if you want a shag to prove to Malfoy just how cute you really are, I'm always up for it," he said in a low voice in her ear. She snorted and shoved him away.

" _I'm_  not an idiot, you know. You just enjoy making girls flustered," she accused, watching with satisfaction as his eyes widened at her in surprise. "Bet that was the first time you've ever got rejected, huh."

"No, and it won't be the last," he said with a cheeky grin and a wink. He raised his glass to hers. "A toast to your fidelity, however pointless it may be," he added. There was something loaded about his words, and there was a glint in his eyes…

"What." She stepped closer and dug her nails into his chest. To an onlooker it would have looked like she was simply being flirty. But, perhaps like that weird bloke Amundsen, she was out for blood tonight too. "What do you mean?"

"You said everyone wants to shag the blonde girl," he said innocently, holding his hands up, one clutching his glass with just his thumb and ring finger. "I assumed you were talking about your fiancé too."

"Bollocks," she scoffed. "You know something."

"You're a paranoid girl, aren't you?" Alphard asked archly.

"Only when people make me paranoid."

"Maybe I'm a symptom, not a cause."

"That makes no sense."

"I've had two of these so far, so you're probably right." He was backing off now, backpedaling.

"Do you  _actually_  want to shag me?" she asked skeptically, her eyes roving over his handsome face. He snorted.

"Not even a little bit. Sorry."

"Don't be sorry. I'm relieved," she said caustically. "You're half as sexy as you think you are."

"Still pretty damn sexy, then," Alphard concluded lightly. She watched him drain his glass and the fight bled out of her somehow. She felt the wind taken from her sails. He was toying with her, riling her up just to kill time, and she was taking the bait ceaselessly whilst he was totally unaffected. She disliked him strongly now. Perhaps she and Nott could form some sort of club, or petition him to leave Britain.

When she glanced over her shoulder, Draco was nowhere to be found. Neither were Astoria, Zabini, Nott, or Amundsen. She felt like things were suddenly far beyond her control, like she was some small and insignificant piece of a very complex puzzle.

"I think I'm going to cry," she blurted out. Pucey was trying to get everyone to join him as he danced, and they watched as he made a fool of himself, loving the attention on him. "He doesn't belong in Slytherin, you know."

"Don't care. Your Houses are bloody stupid."

Ah, so  _this_  was the real Alphard Black. Pansy looked to him with interest. He met her gaze fearlessly.

"They're a way of grouping people based on their values. How can they be stupid," she shot back.

"Because ten year olds haven't  _got_  any bloody values. They've got whatever they've overheard their parents say and whatever their cooler friends' parents are saying and that's it. They're _babies_. It's a barbaric system."

"Durmstrang wasn't barbaric, then?"

Alphard scoffed. He got a strange look in his eyes, like he was suddenly very sad. He set down his empty glass and regarded Pansy now.

"You lot wouldn't have lasted ten seconds in Durmstrang," he said softly, staring her down.

"I think you should fuck me," she whispered. She grabbed a full crystal glass of firewhiskey from a passing Daphne Greengrass' hand and drained it, feeling Daphne and Alphard's eyes on her. "Now," she said, her voice rough.

"I think you should go home," he said wearily. He glanced at a still-stunned Daphne Greengrass. "That was quite rude of her, wasn't it?" he asked conspiratorially.

Daphne met Pansy's eyes.

"Actually, it's probably the least rude thing she's ever done," she said acidly, before turning swiftly on her heel and abandoning them.

"Literally no one wants me," Pansy whispered.

"It's the dress. Or the face. Can't tell. Maybe the voice," Alphard was musing.

"I'll Hex you," she hissed.

"Doubt it," said Alphard boredly. "Look, come with me," he finally sighed. He grabbed her wrist, and was pulling her through the throng of guests.

They ascended the marble stairs. Pansy looked down, wondering if anyone would notice, but no one was paying them any mind. And where was Draco?

The halls felt cool. Pansy's head swam. She felt sick. She'd never done well with firewhiskey.

And then suddenly Alphard pushed her against the wall, knocking the breath from her. She gasped in surprise and fumbled to keep her balance as she felt him pull her hair partially out of its elaborate updo, and then she heard a ripping noise—he'd ripped the front of her dress.

"There," he said breathlessly, stepping back to admire his work. "Oh, hm. Wait. One more thing."

He leaned forward and grasped her chin. With his thumb, he smeared her lipstick. "Perfect."

"Wh—"

"Don't follow me. Wait a few minutes. Try to look ecstatic," he ordered, already walking back towards the stairs. "Blokes like Malfoy hate to see their girlfriends looking like they've had any fun," he explained over his shoulder.

She belatedly realized, like trying to walk through molasses, that he was trying to make it look like they'd shagged, or at least like  _someone_  had shagged her. Or at the very least, snogged her thoroughly.

_Blokes like Malfoy hate to see their girlfriends looking like they've had any fun._

There was some small horror in that idea that was not even new; it was something she'd avoided from the moment she'd agreed to marry Draco.

He was a pathetic man, wasn't he?

And she was all the more pathetic for marrying him.

She began to cry, her stomach and throat burning from the firewhiskey, as she stumbled to the nearest door and fumbled with the brass knob. It was a loo, and she splashed stagnant water over her flushed face, holding it to her eyes to try and avoid any swelling. Distantly she heard doors opening, and she drew in a deep breath, dried her face and hands, and stepped outside.

The hall was still dark, and Amundsen was shaking and sweaty, followed by Nott.

"Fuck off, Parkinson," Amundsen ordered as they brushed past her.

Dazed and confused, she fumbled through the darkness—why was it suddenly so very dark?—and then she heard a distinctive sound.

A girl was sobbing.

Pansy began to shake. Instinctively she knew something horrible had happened.

"Draco," she called out pathetically, her voice barely more substantial than a whine.

"Pansy," Draco came from the nearest door. Was that where the sobbing was coming from? He murmured  _lumos_  and they stood in the wandlight. His hands were shaking, and even in the dim light she could see he was soaked in sweat, and his eyes were wild, practically feral. He smelled like sex. "Let's get downstairs, I'm dying for a drink," he muttered, pulling her along.

They smacked into Zabini in the hall. Where had he come from? He looked as shaken and weak as Draco, and his lovely robes were sodden with sweat at the neckline. His dark skin gleamed wetly.

"Salazar, you're bloody  _everywhere,_ " seethed Draco. Pansy looked between the two men, but Zabini just laughed, a cold laugh, and pushed past them, stalking down the hall.

"Only when you want me to be, I promise," he called. There was something wild and unhinged in his voice.

"Draco, what's going on?" She clawed at him for stability.

"You're drunk, aren't you?" Draco asked in disgust as he led her down the stairs. The party was out of control now, and as they reached the first floor, several people smacked into her. She could barely hear Draco, and his grip was painfully tight on her wrist.

"Who was crying? Why did you treat Bla—"

"Shut up!" Draco cried, but it earned him no notice. He was barely audible above the crowd even now. "Just shut up, you fucking cow—"

Pansy tore herself from his grip and blindly ran, smacking into people, forcing her way back up the stairs. Who had been crying, and why had Blaise said that? And why did she feel so thick and slow? And why was it so dark?

There was one door ajar at the beginning of the hall. Was that where Blaise had gone? She pushed it open, but it was empty, and with a shock she realized she could smell the bitter tang of ejaculate mixed with the coppery scent of blood in this room.

And Draco's cologne.

And she could hear someone crying.

She went to light her wand tip, but she froze.

"Shh, come here. It's me, darling, I'm here."

She had never heard Blaise sound so gentle.

"Wh-where were you?" Astoria's voice was wet and hysterical. "He just—"

"You're safe now," he soothed. She heard Astoria's sobbing become muffled; Blaise was probably holding her now.

She couldn't move. Like trying to cup water, she was on the verge of grasping an idea—but it kept slipping away.

Draco didn't chase after her—from the landing she could see him launching himself into a drinking game led by Pucey, and she sank to the floor against the wall, her mind fuzzy, as she tried to sort things out. She'd not been poisoned—there simply hadn't been enough time for any poison to act in her body, she remembered  _that_ much at least, from potions—but this was definitely not simply alcohol, either. She'd been Confunded, or something strikingly like it.

But as the fuzz began to dissipate, her mind grasped more and more firmly on an idea, and now that she had it in her hold, she refused to let it go.

She sat there for a long time as she weighed her options, pinned to the ground by the gravity of her own realization and what it meant for her future. By the time the party finally had wound down, the effects of the spell had worn down completely and she was clear-headed, and so far beyond anger or sadness.

In spite of the loss, something stirred within her. When she found Draco passed out in the servants' quarters, clutching an empty bottle, his robes missing and his silk shirt undone, she didn't even react outwardly.

She knew what she had to do. For the first time—possibly for the first time in her life—she had a purpose.

* * *

After stopping at Hermione's flat to pick up a book on runes, they returned to Nott Manor, but the house was utterly empty.

Hermione slashed her wand, watching her  _hominem revelio_  dissipate in the frosty air.

"Even the House Elf's gone," she said unhappily. Alphard sighed and prised the door open, and they went inside. Upon entering they encountered the shattered chandelier from Hermione's last visit.

"So we search for any helpful materials and then hunt them down," said Alphard, undaunted. He began to charge forward, but Hermione gripped the neck of his jacket, stopping him.

"Have you lost your mind," she snapped, and waved her wand demonstratively. A number of dark spells were set off, and the two watched them become undone in clouds of black. Hermione shuddered. She hadn't seen spells like that since—

"—he's like a fucking Death Eater," said Alphard disgustedly, speaking the words on her mind, staring down the front hall. "Even at Durmstrang I didn't know anyone who knew this kind of stuff." He glanced back at her. "Thanks, by the way."

"Welcome," she sighed, pulling at her hair. "You take upstairs, I'll take downstairs. Check his mother's room; that's where I thought he might keep any important documents."

But for hours they searched and came up with nothing. Hermione combed Nott's study once more, knowing already that he would have cleared it out, and Alphard found nothing. The Manor had been emptied of anything important or significant—Nott had left in a hurry and taken everything with him.

The two now stood outside Nott Manor, staring up at the blackened wing of the manor. Hermione watched Alphard scowl at it in thought.

"What curse would that be?" he pondered, walking closer to the manor. Hermione frowned.

"A really dark, really powerful one," she said unhappily, following him. "It was probably Voldemort himself who did it. Not many people have that much raw magical power."

"Yeah, well, if I didn't know any better, I'd've said only Voldemort could have set an obstacle course like  _that_  in the front hall," Alphard said. He studied Hermione now. "There's no precedent for Nott's behavior, though, according to you and pretty much everyone else worth asking," he pondered aloud. His gaze was still heavy on her in thought. "He didn't appear to have any affiliations with dark wizardry except for via his family, and even those were tenuous by the time you were teenagers."

"But you already thought he was a dark wizard," Hermione recalled now. "You hated him from the start— _why_?"

He let out a sigh.

"It is a _long_  story, and we haven't got time right now. It doesn't tell us anything we don't know," he added. "Come on, let's report back to Kingsley."

After more fully debriefing, they parted ways. Several teams were dispatched to track Nott and Amundsen, and Hermione and Alphard were each told to go home and get some rest.

They returned to the Ministry together and took notes on everything that had happened—it was best to do so while their memories were still fresh. At long last, Hermione set down her quill, and Alphard set down his. She regarded him heavily, feeling her stomach begin to churn.

Alphard returned her gaze. There was something entirely too familiar about this scenario—how many times had it happened like this? He'd get too close to a woman and then disappoint her. This was a long-standing pattern, but then, Hermione was unlike any woman he'd ever met.

"I don't want what happened today—well, all of the things that happened today—to get in the way of us working together," she began slowly. He was not expecting her to say that. He had been expecting, based on past experiences, for her to burst into tears.

It struck him then that her bravery was of a different sort than he was accustomed to seeing, and again he felt that magnetic pull toward her.  _Don't fall for her._ "I  _should_  report you. That's the very reason I'm following you on these missions, anyway..."

"Then report me," said Alphard simply, holding his palms up. He leaned back in the chair he'd pulled up and crossed his legs, regarding her fearlessly. "I won't hold it against you."

"I would hold it against me," she said now, finally breaking eye contact. "My rule-loving side is telling me that using an Unforgiveable is against the law and I am supposed to report all unlawful actions on your part. But the side of me that has been through war, terror, months of estrangement and fleeing from Dark wizards, tells me that life is messy and we can only use our own principles to guide us. And I think your principles are good ones, generally speaking, even if your execution does look a bit Durmstrang." She offered a wry smile at him now. "I'll include it in the report when I am taken off of your tail but I will emphasize that it was acceptable and necessary."

"Don't do me any favors," Alphard shot back, feeling his face grow hot. He expected this to incite irritation in Granger but she laughed.

"Oh, I'm not—mainly because there is something I want from you, and if you don't give it to me, I will run off to Kingsley this very minute and report you and exaggerate what happened in all sorts of awful ways."

There was a determined gleam in her eyes that he was beginning to get to know very well. Alphard edged back as Granger leaned forward.

"Oh really," he said, clearing his throat. Granger nodded, tapping her fingers together. "I'll give you anything as long as it's not something I don't want to give."

"You are going to teach me how to duel tomorrow."

"Ah, you mean like grown-up dueling," surmised Alphard cheekily, "not like that silly stuff Nott told you—then again he did get away and we've not caught him yet so maybe there is something I'm missing."

"So you'll do it," she confirmed, gripping her desk so hard that her knuckles bleached. Alphard snorted.

"Of course. It'll hardly be work," he said slyly.

Silence fell between them again. Alphard drew in a breath. "And what about—the other thing?"

They each looked away from each other.

"Probably best if we just both forget that one," blustered Granger, "er—those things."

"Right. Happened twice," conceded Alphard shortly.

"Yes, you need the plural if it's happened more than once," Hermione agreed, her face burning. She heard Alphard snort once more.

"It's history, then. Blurred by time already past," he said, rising from his chair. "So—when do you want to learn how to duel?"

She grinned up at him.

"Oh, let's start at dawn," she said airily. "If I'm going to be better than everyone else I've got to get plenty of practice in."

"You'll never beat me," boasted Alphard. Hermione followed him out of the office and locked her door behind her. Nott's office had already been cordoned off, and her stomach dropped at the sight of it. She felt Alphard's hand on her upper back, near her shoulder. For whatever stupid reason it made her recall some "girl talk" she had had with Ginny and Parvati—a disturbing experience for all parties involved, as both Ginny and Hermione had never spent quite that much time debating the age at which a witch should retire her miniskirts—when Parvati had matched the placement of a man's hand upon one's back to how that correlated to his intentions.

If Parvati's scale was to be believed, Alphard considered her to be a child—perhaps a mentally challenged one.

Hermione cringed, hating herself for recalling such idiocy.

"Don't think about it," urged Alphard, guiding her away from Nott's office.

Hermione assumed they would part ways after exiting the Ministry, but Alphard insisted on accompanying her to her flat. "It would be the prime moment for Nott to strike," Alphard said as they prepared to Apparate. "You should have backup."

* * *

Alphard returned to his flat to find Daphne waiting outside of it, looking the worse for wear, her hair mussed and her makeup smeared. As he alighted the steps and saw her, his stomach dropped.

"Daph," he greeted slowly, as he approached her. She was hugging herself and avoiding his eyes. He checked his watch—it was well after midnight.  _Merlin, and Granger wants to meet at dawn to duel…_ "It's late," he remarked lightly, going to his door and unlocking it.

"Are we a thing?"

Her voice was insecure but hard. Alphard finished unlocking his door and let it swing open as he looked at her. The familiar sensation of being repelled by responsibility was cut by the also familiar sensation of powerful desire. Even looking as hellish as she did, he was profoundly attracted to her. It was not merely a physical thing, though her figure certainly had some sway in his feelings. He thought of how bored she had acted around him at first, how her dark eyes had slyly flicked to his to make sure he was still watching her even as she pretended he was invisible. He leaned against the doorframe.

"Dunno, are we?"

Her eyes grew wet and she blinked rapidly.

"The things you said—" she could not finish the sentence. She looked away, clearly struggling with the current power balance.

"Fuck what I said," he blurted out now. "I say a lot of dumb things."

"You said some really true things."

Alphard waited. He watched her seem to melt, and then she was pressing herself against him, seeking not sex but comfort. "You're right—I don't need you," she said into his shirt. "But I really bloody want you."

It sealed the deal for him—he pulled her inside his flat and then she was kissing him with the same vigor of that first night they had fucked. Few girls were as irresistible as she was, he decided. He returned the kisses, knowing full well he'd likely get less than an hour of sleep before meeting Granger.

Thinking of Granger made him kiss Daphne harder, made him yank off her robes with a fervor that left Daphne gasping. He had undressed her before they'd even made it to his bedroom, and her lithe but curvaceous body was soft and warm under his calloused hands, and it was starkly different from Granger's body—hell, even Daphne's mouth was different from Granger's. Her lips were not as full, and her kisses were so much more expert. And he knew what else that mouth could do, and it was  _fantastic._

Dammit. Now he was thinking of Granger doing that. He dragged his stupid mind back to the present, where Daphne was rubbing herself against him in an almost catlike manner and clawing at his shirt. She pulled it over his head as they stumbled together into his doorframe and he cursed a blue streak into her mouth as they realigned their direction and fell backwards onto his bed.

He flipped her over but was still unable to completely clear Granger from his mind, even as he trailed kisses down Daphne's body, even as her moans grew louder and breathier, even as her delicate fingers became tangled in his hair, urging his mouth closer, harder. He felt her shudder beneath him and then he was sinking into her, burying his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling her perfume, her hair tickling his face as they moved together.

He had kissed Granger.

Why had he done it?

No, the first time was acceptable. He had been exhilarated, and fine, he was attracted to her. Things happened.

Why had he kissed her a second time?

The second kiss had been so tender, and had been so avoidable.

It was unprofessional.

It was a show of disrespect to Granger and to their working relationship, on paper at least, though he felt nothing but respect for her.

Why had he done it?

He could not figure out why.

"I'm falling for you," Daphne gasped in his ear. "I have been since the night I first saw you."

This was his cue to say something equally tender.

_She must be feeling so alone…_  again bloody Granger reared her bushy head in his thoughts. He rolled his hips against Daphne and heard her whimper with pleasure.

"Daph," he gasped, settling for the truth, "I'm not sure I can fall for anyone."

* * *

Hermione locked her flat and set up yet more wards, until the magic was so thick around her flat that it was almost suffocating. She was certain she'd thought of everything, and attempted to sleep, but then panicked once more and spent hours consulting books on every possible type of ward one could feasibly put up without draining their magic stores.

By the time she was satisfied, it was nearly four in the morning, and she had approximately two hours before she had insisted that Alphard meet her at the Leaky Cauldron for an early breakfast before dueling. Her eyes burned with exhaustion but when she lay down in her bed, at long last, her mind would not turn off, as usual.

Her clock read 4:30am. Her heart pounded even as she yawned.

She thought briefly of the kisses with Alphard but her mind was drawn to something bigger, something darker, than trivial kisses. She thought of Nott, of how everything had changed, she thought of how Zabini was gone, Malfoy was gone. In less than a month she had lost most of her main colleagues. They couldn't go back. Nott would get prison now—she'd be the one to put him there, if she could.

But what would make Nott do all this?

She remembered him so vehemently attacking Alphard from behind. No matter what she said about Alphard she knew he'd never dream of attacking from behind. Most people wouldn't. Nott hadn't even thought twice.

She had once thought he'd had a sense of honor. She had respected him.

Crap. Now she was crying.

Respect was such an odd thing; it took so long to be built but could crumble so easily.

Double crap—now she was up, and pacing in her bedroom.

Alphard had told her how Nott had reacted when he had taunted him vaguely about Astoria, showing that they were right—Astoria must have been raped at some point.

_I need to speak to Astoria. She'll never let Alphard near her…_

Hermione left her flat and Apparated to the Ministry. It was nearly empty, though in the Atrium she nearly bowled over a mouselike girl she vaguely recognized as an Unspeakable who had attended Hogwarts and been a few years under her—perhaps she had been a Ravenclaw?

"S-sorry, Granger," stammered the girl, straightening her glasses, avoiding eye contact.

"No problem," Hermione said quickly. She was used to others knowing her name but she wondered how many times she had been introduced to this girl. "Sorry, but I don't recall your—"

"Quirke. Orla Quirke," she said sheepishly. "My brother was in your year. Ravenclaw too. Ormond."

"I don't—"

"He died. In the Battle," she said shortly now.

Hermione could have fried an egg on her own face, she was certain of it.

"I'm so sorry," she said uncomfortably. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

"Working late. Lost track of time," the girl confessed. "Happens a lot."

"That's the best way to get ahead in your career," Hermione said sagely, already glancing at her watch and thinking of the letter she wanted to draft to Astoria.

"Or you can get famous as a teenager for supposedly conquering the Dark Lord—"

Hermione's gaze snapped back to Quirke in shock. The girl laughed uncomfortably. "Sorry—joke. Just a really stupid joke. I must be out of my mind with sleep. See you."

Hermione watched the girl walk away, still in shock.  _Well, that was unexpectedly nasty…_ She chuckled to herself as she went to her office, making a mental note to tell Harry and Ron about the moment. They both had gotten more remarks of similar tone than any of them could keep track of and they would enjoy a good laugh over it.

But something about seeing Orla jogged her brain, and as she reached her office and unlocked it, she found her hand hovering over the knob. Seeing Quirke had made her think of the Department of Mysteries, and brought to the fore something she had had in the back of her mind since they had found the anastasis.

Professor Babbling had told them, once, about a place in the Department of Mysteries dedicated exclusively to the study of the creation of new runes.

Would Quirke know something about this?

She debated going back after the girl but decided in the end to try and infiltrate the department herself, when she had more time. In the meantime she scribbled off an owl to Professor Babbling in the hopes that the woman might be able to help her with this.

Her office was dark and messy, scattered with the remnants of the case. Hermione let out a sigh, trying to organize her mind and prioritize. The sun would come up soon; already the sky was tinged with dawn. Hermione stared at the parchment. This note would not come so easily as the one she'd sent to Professor Babbling.

She had to play to Astoria's mental state. She had to get her to be willing to discuss something deeply personal, and to be as factual about it as possible.

The sky grew light and she realized she would soon be late to meet Alphard, and her parchment was still blank. Hermione let out a sigh and left her office to meet Alphard, but hesitated a moment and added wards to her office before leaving the Ministry.

You could never be too careful, after all.

* * *

Alphard looked like he'd not slept a wink either. His face was unusually pale beneath the dusting of freckles and the whites of his eyes were not so bright. He was already seated at a booth, head in his hand, staring numbly ahead.

_Perhaps I should have suggested a bit later in the morning,_  Hermione thought guiltily, as she approached him. When she stood next to the booth and greeted him, he flinched.

"'m sorry," he muttered, mopping his face. "Bloody hell. Perhaps I'm getting old. Used to be able to stay up for days."

Hermione sank into the opposite side of the booth as Alphard scowled at her. "You look bright-eyed and bushy-tailed," he said with disgust. Hermione grinned.

"I've got some ideas," she confessed in a low voice. Alphard scoffed.

"Do you ever  _not_  have ideas, Granger?"

She was saved from answering by their order being taken.

"Did you sleep at all," she asked worriedly after the waitress left, leaning in. Alphard shook his head, rubbing at his eyes.

"Nah, Daph kept me up all bloody night," he yawned, and something in her chest seemed to twinge with pain. It was a surprising pain that took her aback. After those kisses, after the fight he'd had with Daphne—they were just alright again?

"…Did you ask her about Astoria?" Hermione pressed, fiercely ignoring the stupid pain and the idiotic shame that was filling her now. Honestly, they had both  _agreed_  to forget the kiss.

But she had sort of somehow thought that was in name only. It seemed Alphard really  _had_  forgotten it.

"Didn't do much talking," Alphard said slyly, some flicker of energy in his eyes briefly. The waitress came back with their breakfasts.

"Will you be able to duel, still?" Hermione asked, hating how prissy her voice sounded. Alphard was picking at his food and snorted.

"It'll take a little more than that to take me down, Granger," he reassured her. "So what were these ideas?"

"Well, I remembered my Ancient Runes professor at Hogwarts saying something about how there is an entire part of the Department of Mysteries devoted to studying the creation of new runes." Hermione was studying him carefully and could now, all too clearly, see the signs he had been well shagged: a love bite, partially hidden by the collar of his jumper; his slightly swollen lips; his more-mussed-than-usual hair…

_Oh, get over yourself,_ she snapped at herself inwardly.  _This is idiotic._

"So we'll break into the Department of Mysteries and find the Unspeakable assigned to it and interrogate them. No problem."

"Don't talk with your mouth full," Hermione snapped automatically. "And  _my plan_  was to first see what I could learn from Professor Babbling."

Alphard choked on his food.

"That's her name?!  _Professor Babbling?_ " he wheezed, eyes streaming as he hit himself in the chest. "Oh, that sounds  _great_. Super confident in whatever she's got to say."

Hermione scowled at him and he grinned cheekily at her. Secretly she was pleased that  _she_  had infused some life and energy in him, but she pushed that thought down.

"Just finish your food. You'll need your strength," she admonished. Alphard was grinning still as he chewed.

"Oh, yeah, this'll be the duel of a lifetime," he teased her. They paid—she treated, as thanks for him training her—and decided to go to the Auror department's training room to duel. Neither commented on Alphard and Harry's duel but the memory was fresh for them both.

But as they entered the Auror department, they were derailed.

Kingsley, Furness, and another Jurator—Terry Boot, another classmate, though he typically handled domestic affairs and as a result she never worked with him—stood in the hall. When Alphard and Hermione rounded the corner, all three men stopped speaking.

"Speak of the devil," mused Furness wearily as he looked them over. "Devils, rather."

"You're all here early," Hermione remarked as they came to a stop in front of them. She glanced at Terry, who was shifting uncomfortably and avoiding her eyes.

"Well, we've got two former extremely powerful Ministry employees on the run with serious charges on their heads, and Boot here just alerted us yesterday to some…relevant information."

Alphard and Hermione looked expectantly at Terry.

"Malfoy and Zabini's wills," he explained, blinking rapidly and avoiding eye contact. He held up the scrolls of parchment. Malfoy's, predictably, was encased in a hunter green leather cylinder, fashioned with silver. Zabini's, in contrast, was on a single piece of scrap parchment, his hurried but elegant scrawl bleeding through to the other side. "We should step inside," he added, looking around, his expression one of paranoia.

The five stepped into Furness' office, which was plushly decorated but clearly not by Furness' doing. It was barren of any personal touches and the furniture looked to be leftovers from a previous Auror department head. There weren't enough chairs, so Alphard leaned against the wall.

Hermione took a seat next to Terry and watched him open up Malfoy's will first. It was several metres long, and Hermione at once recognized Zabini's elegant handwriting. "Malfoy left his entire estate to Pansy Parkinson," Terry explained in his rapid, robotic tone that Hermione recognized from taking so many classes with him. "The Malfoy fortune is now in Parkinson's possession, which conflicts with this document." Terry shook an additional scroll out of the leather encasing and unfurled it. This time, Hermione recognized Nott's precise, labored hand.

"This is a pre-nup," Hermione remarked, scanning it. "It seems—"

"—no, it is not signed, and as a result, is nullified. But some analysis tells us that this will was drawn up quite recently—perhaps days before Zabini died," Terry was saying. "And in fact I recall that Zabini had already drawn up Malfoy's will some years after the war. I know because he consulted me on some items. We located that document, which was partially destroyed, but what remains leaves  _nothing_  to Parkinson."

"Pansy had Zabini draw up a new will, then," Hermione concluded quickly. "But what about—"

Her hand reached out for the scrap of parchment with Zabini's handwriting as her mind worked a mile a minute. This implicated Pansy in a very serious way in Malfoy's death, perhaps moreso than anything else could—

"Zabini's will," Furness interrupted, magically sliding the will out of both Terry and Hermione's reach. Furness' gaze was flinty on her now. "I did not realize you were so close to Zabini, Granger. By all accounts you two were rivals who remained civil but distant."

Hermione paused. She'd never been a good liar—she'd have to channel some Slytherin energy now. She frowned and sat back in her chair, as though taken aback.  _Zabini must have left something to me. It must be something serious, too, and it looks bad that he clearly drew it up in quite a hurry, and probably recently…_

"We had grown quite close," Hermione said now, and luckily her struggle to keep her voice sounding convincing enough made it sound as though she were fighting to keep tears at bay. She looked down and sensed Alphard looking at her incredulously.  _Think fast…_ "I would say he had become my closest confidante," she added now. "After things ended with Ron, I just—there was no one to turn to who wasn't close to Ron as well. I was extremely alone. Blaise was neutral and a good listener."

She cleared her throat, trying not to crumble under the hard, shocked stares of four different men. "We were not open about our friendship because it was complicated, you know, and Blaise was always so private…"

There was a long, tense silence which rang in her ears, her heart thudding against her chest. She raised her gaze to Furness now, blinking as though trying to not cry. "Did he…did he leave something to me?"

Furness' gaze was hard and would have pierced a lesser woman. He looked down at the parchment, straightening it.

"He left you everything, as a matter of fact." He watched carefully as she processed this information. "His fortune—though it does not appear to be very much, as Zabini was  _quite_  the spender; his admirable flat in Chelsea, along with everything in it…"

Yet again Hermione wished for telepathy. She longed to be able to consult with Alphard. Instead she could not even look back at him. Furness still had not broken eye contact with her. "It appears this will was drawn up the day of his death," he said. "Is there any reason why Zabini would leave everything to  _you_? And so last-minute"

_Yes, and it probably has everything to do with something he wanted me to find in said flat,_ she reflected now, but she could not say that. She cast around, feeling feeble-minded due to shock.

There was no good reason for Zabini to leave  _her_  of all people everything. There was no easy way to talk herself out of this. Especially knowing that he had drawn it up so hastily, clearly as a dramatic, drastic last measure. She bit her lip and tried to make herself cry.

"We were close, but not  _that_  close," she admitted now, her voice quavering. "But he had no family left in his life. I can't think of who would be the most logical choice for him to leave his fortune to."

This, at least, was true. Astoria was the closest she could determine, but they had been dating so briefly…they were not even publicly together. "I suppose he sensed something bad was about to happen and decided to be as pragmatic as possible about the worst case scenario," she pretended to think aloud. "He must have known death was imminent."

Furness was not fooled, and though she greatly disliked the man, she could not help but see why he was such a respected Auror. Kingsley and Terry were clearly baffled, too baffled to react, and she could not see Alphard's face.

"Zabini always expressed a great admiration for Granger," Alphard spoke up now, his voice rough from lack of sleep. "I was in the same social circle as him and he often mentioned her when I spoke with him."

Hermione wondered if this was true.

For a long time, no one spoke. Hermione stared at her hands, which would shake if she were to hold them up, she was certain.

"The process takes about three days, as you know," Terry finally spoke. Furness set Zabini's will on his desk and Terry reached out and passed it to Hermione. "By Wednesday you will have access to Zabini's accounts and flat."

Hermione took the parchment and looked down at it, feeling all eyes on her. The parchment was crumpled, with inkblots pockmarking the paper. His handwriting was messy, hurried—he had known he was about to die.

_Last Will and Testament_

_of Blaise Raphael Zabini_

_I hereby declare this is my last will and testament._

_I direct that my estate and flat be given to Hermione Jean Granger._

_Signed_

_B. R. Zabini_

"We'll give you some time to think, Granger," said Kingsley, in some far-off place. Her ears were buzzing and her face felt hot. She felt Alphard's hand on her shoulder, and then he was leading her out of Furness' office and back to her own. She walked mechanically, allowing him to lead her, as the severity of the situation washed over her repeatedly in waves, drowning her.

They reached her office and Alphard ushered her inside. Once the door was locked and wards in place, they turned to face each other.

"Well," she began, setting the parchment on the desk, "if that isn't a signal, I don't know what is."


	13. Psycho

**Psycho**

* * *

"Well, if that isn't a signal, I don't know what is," Hermione muttered, staring down at Zabini's will. "...But we already went there. What if we already found what I was meant to find?"

"I doubt it. I bet you anything there's some charm that's activated by this will, and we just need to go there and find it," Alphard said immediately, shaking his head. "Zabini is— _was_ —smart as hell. This was completely intentional, and it's probably not something you could easily just stumble across."

"But we can't go there. It's not in my possession yet." She went to her bookshelf and began searching. Why didn't she have more books on domestic topics like this? She knew she had some at her flat, but she'd not opened them in months.

"Oh, come on. There's no way that law is real, Granger," Alphard reasoned, snatching the parchment from her desk and glaring at it, as though Zabini's last written words could prove it. Hermione was already rifling through a heavy tome.

"It must be a loophole, or something. Boot is quite good, unfortunately...Very clever," she muttered reluctantly, flipping through delicate pages hastily, nearly ripping them in the process. Alphard was smirking at her. "What?" she demanded, scowling at him.

"I've never known you to be so violent with a book, is all," he said lightly. "I've an idea—let's get Potter to override it."

Hermione paused, looking doubtful.

"I don't know, Alphard. Even if Harry could override it, they'd never let me in, and what if I personally need to be there to find whatever the thing is? Then we're just putting my credibility further at risk."

"It's worth a try," Alphard countered. "Don't tell me you're really going to just let them have Zabini's home in holding for three whole days?"

"Of course I'm not. I'm going to find out exactly what the loophole is, and counter it," she snapped, slamming the book shut. Alphard scoffed.

"Alright, howabout while you're doing that, we ask Potter?" he pressed. Then he paused, looking slyly at her. "...Unless you're avoiding him, of course."

Hermione fought against the temptation to draw her wand on him. Alphard was smirking at her maddeningly.

"I'm not avoiding him. There's no reason to avoid him. I'm simply very busy."

"Yes—with trying to get inside Zabini's flat,  _which Potter could help with_!" Alphard insisted, following Hermione doggedly as she went to return the book back to the case, mainly as an excuse to look away from his searching, all too knowing gaze.

"Fine!" Hermione whirled around, smacking against Alphard—he'd been standing far too close. She drew in a breath, feeling even more rattled, and glared up at him, trying to ignore just how close he was. "Why don't  _you_  go ask Harry, if you're so dead-set on it?"

"Maybe I will," Alphard retorted. "You know, of the two of us, I technically have more reason to avoid Potter. I beat the shit out of him in a duel—"

"—As I recall, you weren't much better off—" Hermione interjected hotly.

"—And we've hated each other from the start. You, however, are supposedly his best friend."

Why wouldn't he drop it? Her face was growing hot. There was a flash of victory in Alphard's dark eyes, and she contemplated giving him a nice shove backwards. But then she'd be touching him, and that seemed to lead to dangerous things for her—particularly when she was angry.

"Oh, just go, will you?" she snapped, waving her wand so that her door popped open.

"Admit you're avoiding Potter."

"What difference does it make?!" she demanded exasperatedly. "Even if I were avoiding Harry—which I'm  _not_ —what does it even have to do with you? Why have you got to involve yourself in my life? It's none of your business!"

"Oh, I don't know—perhaps because  _your life_  is interfering with  _my job_?" he pointed out with an edge to his voice. He was still too close. She couldn't think straight.

"You've been hell-bent on proving I've been wasting my life being in love with Harry since day one. This is all part of some ridiculous thesis you have—"

"—That  _you yourself_  confirmed, Granger!" Alphard threw his hands up in the air. "Once again, you're letting your feelings for Potter stand in the way of you actually achieving something!"

"As one of the best Jurators the Ministry has ever seen, I hardly think I've failed to achieve something," Hermione said hotly, crossing her arms over her chest. Alphard's brows shot up to his hairline.

"Right. Jurator—you're an excellent Jurator! Fine. Sure. I think there are loads of things you'd be excellent at. But we both know you  _should_  be an Auror—"

"I don't  _want_ to be an Auror, though! Why can't you see that?!"

"Because I see the truth of people. Because I can see things about you that you refuse to see about yourself."

"And what do you see about me right now?" she asked, her voice hard, as she met his eyes. "Do I seem angry, at all, at you?"

"Anger's a defense mechanism," Alphard said dismissively. He stepped closer, and she felt if she breathed, something might shatter. "I told you, you're wasted at a desk job. I stand by that. And the only reason you've got a desk job is because Potter's head Auror, and if you became an Auror, you'd compete with—and likely surpass—him."

"Why would that bother me?"

"You tell me. I haven't got the faintest idea of why anyone would fancy him, let alone you."

"Unbelievable," she breathed. "Just—just go, alright? Go see Harry. I've got books to search."

Alphard bit his lip as though stopping himself from speaking. He was still too close; she was cornered by him against the shelves. Her skin tingled all over at the potential energy of this moment: how easy would it be, for him to grip her arms, like he had in the infirmary that day; how easy it would be to wind her fingers in his hair...and yet, at the same time, she just wanted to Hex him. There was some awful, building storm inside of her, and she thought if she spent another single second in his presence— " _Just go,_ " she repeated.

And then he turned away from her, pulling at his hair. It was like the sun had gone behind a cloud. Everything felt cold and dark and bereft.

"Fine. I'll go talk to Potter. You stay with your books, where you feel safe."

She opened her mouth to retort, but he left, slamming her door shut.

Hermione stared at the space where he'd been standing.

She wasn't avoiding Harry.

There was no reason to do that.

It would be illogical. Silly, even.

She was definitely not avoiding Harry.

And she definitely did  _not_  want to be an Auror.

* * *

Alphard was going too fast, everything was too bright, too much. A niggling voice in his head was pointing out that this was when things often went off the rails for him…he was simultaneously at his best and at his worst like this, and there was no telling what could happen next.

He made his way to Potter's room at St Mungo's. Visiting hours hadn't yet begun—it was still early, and it was also Sunday, for that matter—but he'd donned his Auror uniform and flashed a badge at the right people. He was relieved: no Weasleys were hanging about. He hated how they looked at him, Sirius' name hovering about their lips, their faces pale like he was a ghost that had walked right through them.

Potter was awake and staring out his window. He jumped slightly when Alphard entered without knocking, and sat up a little straighter as he took in Alphard's Auror robes.

"Black," he greeted, his voice brusque and businesslike as though he were behind his desk, and not lying prone in a hospital bed, bruised and battered. "I heard I have you to thank."

"And Nott too, I suspect," Alphard said offhandedly. Potter's brows shot up as Alphard pulled the little chair next to the bed out a bit further, and sat on it backwards, resting his elbows on the back of the chair. "I'll explain later…Got a favor to ask of you."

"I reckon I can't exactly refuse," Potter guessed.

"Well, I did save your arse. Listen, Zabini's will was just discovered," he said crisply, wasting no time, "and he left everything to Granger."

"He wanted her to find something, and he didn't trust anyone else," Potter guessed immediately, and Alphard felt a brief flash of annoyance. He was always a bit peeved when Potter was as quick, as intuitive, as everyone was always saying he was. And again he heard that voice in his head:  _you're at your best and at your worst…no telling what will happen…no telling what might set you off…_

"That's our thinking, too. The trouble is that they're saying it'll take three days to transfer the estate to her."

"That's a lie," Potter said immediately, shaking his head. "Maybe they're invoking some random minor ordinance, but once the will is processed, it belongs to Hermione." He paused. "You think it's being searched before Hermione gets it."

"Yeah, and I think we can override that—but Furness knows I'm working with Granger, not to mention he's not thrilled with me right now to begin with. There's no way he'd authorize it for me."

"He might not authorize if I request it, either. Remember, going to Malfoy Manor was technically off the record. I mucked up a crime scene and got myself into trouble," Harry reasoned pragmatically. He scratched at his chin, narrowing his eyes in thought. "Ron's on the case too, though, and he's not in trouble."

"He's not exactly trusted, either," Alphard pointed out. Harry pressed his lips together. He reached for his forehead. Alphard guessed he meant to rub at his scar, but was stopped by the bandages there.

"He's not," Harry agreed slowly, "but everyone else is too junior. If anyone else does it, it'll be obvious we put him or her up to it. If Ron asks, it looks like he's just trying to occupy himself."

"Guess Weasley it is, then," Alphard concluded.

There was no reason to prolong their interaction further, so he made to stand up, but Potter's voice stopped him.

"You think it was Nott," he said, finally meeting Alphard's eyes. "Who did me in, I mean."

"He used the Imperius Curse on me—allegedly—the other day to lead me to Hogsmeade. I thought it was a stroke of intuition at the time, but I had the same feeling when I went with Weasley to Malfoy Manor to look for you, and then found you. I must have been under the Imperius Curse…I just don't know _why_  he did it, yet."

Harry got a strange, guarded look now. Alphard wondered about his mental state—even before he'd been attacked and left for dead in the snow, Potter hadn't exactly been himself. "But Nott's on the run, anyway. He might be dead at this point, for all we know," Alphard added. He got up and slid the chair next to the bed again. "Get some rest, Potter." He toyed with clapping him on the shoulder, or some other signal of camaraderie—he ought to make nice—but he couldn't bring himself to do it. He turned away to leave.

"H-how is Hermione taking all of this?"

Alphard looked back at Harry in surprise.

"I'm surprised you'd ask after her," he remarked. Harry's lovely eyes narrowed.

"She's my best friend," he said coolly.

Their duel was lingering in the air between them. Alphard felt the familiar urge to push, to press, just a little further… _Right, your best friend—because you treat Weasley just the same as you treat her…_

Just how much could he get away with?

"She's well," he said evenly. "Very busy trying to solve all these mysteries."

He gave Potter an ironic salute and inwardly congratulated himself for a rare display of self-control as he left the room.

* * *

There was no sign of whatever ordinance Boot had called upon for Furness and Kingsley; Hermione couldn't believe she was lacking knowledge here, but comforted herself with the thought that these laws were minor; usually unimportant.

Except for, of course, when they were the one thing standing in the way of her getting into Zabini's flat. At the moment they were unusually important.

Furiously, she slammed the fifteenth book she had consulted shut, and sat at her desk, pulling at her hair in frustration.

_Perhaps Nott's got a book on it_ , she caught herself thinking, before she remembered that Nott was at large, and technically his office could be held as evidence. She let out an oath and sat there a moment longer before she found herself rising to her feet. All she needed was a book—she'd just have a quick look through Nott's bookshelf, and then she'd be on her way.

She was in Nott's office in seconds. His locking charms had been far more complicated than most people ever bothered with at the Ministry—after all, she reflected grimly, most people did not have quite so much to fear from their coworkers—and had taken a little more effort, but in the end was no match for her. There was a burst of satisfaction as the door popped open that was abruptly quelled by the sight that greeted her.

The office had been ransacked. She was not the first person to have visited this office, clearly. Hermione hastily shut the door behind her once more. Even though it was quite early, and also a Sunday, she didn't want just any old Ministry employee to catch her breaking into Nott's office—particularly when it had clearly been ransacked. The last thing she needed right now was to be accused of obstructing justice.

Who had done it, and what had they been searching for?

Books and parchment littered the ground; Hermione gingerly stepped over a smashed ink bottle as she crept over to the desk. Unlike the other Jurators, Nott had had very few personal effects in his office, but loads of books—his collection even rivaled her own.

Drawers of the desk had been pulled out, and the waste bin upended. The likeliest candidate of this destruction was Nott, of course—he would have known to put the locking charm back on his door, and he would have had the least trouble getting into the Ministry.

Books were scattered everywhere, but one book lay open on his desk, with several pages torn from it. After recovering from the initial horror of an intentionally-damaged book, Hermione sat down in the chair and, cautiously, as though someone might leap out of nowhere and stop her, she turned the book over to study its cover. It was a paper cover—this was a draft book.

**_The Death Chamber_ **

_Mysteries and Revelations_

_by Orla Quirke_

_with Forewords from Prof. Bathsheda Babbling and Saul Croaker_

The book was heavily marked up. Someone with an elegant hand had marked the pages: 'check sp.,' and 'add ref.' littered the pages in emerald ink.

"Orla Quirke..." she murmured, fingers brushing over the book cover. That was the Unspeakable she'd run into just hours ago—the strange, dark one, with the brother who had died at Hogwarts... Was she really writing a book on the Death Chamber? Wasn't the point of the Department of Mysteries just that—for them to be mysteries?

She flipped through the pages. The first half of the book was largely a detailed history of the general understanding of death, including parables and fables from other cultures, both Muggle and Wizard. The section that the pages had been torn from appeared to be specifically about the Veil, though the only remaining text was merely an introductory paragraph describing the Veil.

_'In the centre of the chamber, it stands upon a dais. A curtain—the Veil—flutters ever so slightly, as though it has just been touched. And indeed, perhaps it has: for this is where the souls of the newly dead are thought to pass through to the Other Side.'_

The editor, whoever it had been, had written: 'frag, revise for full sentence. Too dramatic...just describe the struct.'

The beginning of the next sentence was cut off by the end of the page:  _'Perhaps the greatest mystery in a Department full of them, the Veil's stone structure has runes, ancient, unknown runes, carved into it...in spite of'_

Runes. Orla Quirke studied runes. And there was a foreword in this book from Professor Babbling. And now, just when things were coming to a head with the Amundsen case—and the knowledge that his victims seemed to have some sort of rune carved into them—this book got torn up and was here in Nott's office.

She was sprinting out of the office before the thought had even fully formed in her head:  _get to the Veil_. She was running, running to the Department of Mysteries, because she had been through this enough times to know there wasn't enough time, there was never enough time—no time to send a message to Alphard, no time to call on the Aurors. There was simply not enough time. And even as her blood pounded like a war drum, even as her wand shook in her clammy palm, she never once stopped to wonder whether or not she could do this.

* * *

Alphard felt ridiculous asking Weasley for a favor, but he knew if he dropped Hermione's name, the tagalong would do anything. He went to Ron's flat in Diagon Alley, but no one answered; feeling an increasing sense of urgency, he realized he would have to try the Weasley family home.

Over the course of his time with the British Ministry of Magic, he had heard much about the Weasley family home: it had some special name—the Foxhole? Something like that—and that it was a veritable beehive, with Weasleys and their significant others buzzing in and out at all times.

He also knew it was located near Muggle homes, because there was much joking about how the Muggles reacted to the sometimes strange incidents surrounding the Weasley home, such as flying cars and bewitched garden gnomes. He had rolled his eyes at every story at the time, feeling strangely bitter and excluded, but now he wished he had been paying more attention.

Because he had no idea of where the Weasleys lived.

Alphard stalked along Diagon Alley, away from Ron's flat, as he considered what to do. He paused thoughtfully before a shop with lurid orange signage: Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. It was closed, but he knew there were flats above these shops and, usually, the shop owners lived there. There was a very good chance that there was a Weasley family member above this shop, who could help him find Ron Weasley.

Alphard rapped on the door loudly and, when that didn't work, forced open the door.

When he stepped inside, a loud sound like a cross between a fart and a siren filled his ears, and he clapped his hands over them, not knowing whether to laugh or yell. At the very back of the crammed shop, a little stairwell went up to a second floor, and, sure enough, the door exploded—revealing a very tall man with the trademark Weasley flaming red hair, wand out and at the ready. He recognized him at once: he was a cursebreaker for Gringotts. Alphard had worked with him once. Bob? Bill?

The ridiculous alarm stopped, and the cursebreaker lowered his wand. A shorter Weasley with close-cropped hair appeared behind his brother and pushed him aside. Like all people who had associated with Sirius Black at one point or another, his face paled, and it clearly took him a moment to realize that Alphard was not, in fact, Sirius Black.

"Auror Black," deduced the cursebreaker. "I didn't think the Aurors would need to break into a joke shop."

"I'm looking for Auror Weasley, and it occurred to me to stop here," Alphard explained, raising his hands in mock-surrender. "I don't suppose you'd know where I could find him?"

"Did you try where he lives?" suggested the younger Weasley coolly. Alphard snorted.

"No, what a novel idea!" He rolled his eyes. "I though he might have gone to your family home. …I know that your family's been through quite a lot the past few days. Anyway, I realized he'd likely be there, and I have no idea where that is."

"He probably is there," said the cursebreaker. He came down the steps, and as he approached, Alphard noticed he looked much worse for wear than when Alphard had seen him last. He supposed the stress was getting to him, though Alphard couldn't imagine that an experienced cursebreaker would be so worn down by Ginny Weasley's brief disappearance.

He also looked like he hadn't showered or shaved in quite some time, and like he had slept in his clothes—for several nights. His overall state mostly diminished the aura of  _cool_  that he usually radiated. "Bill Weasley. We worked together once, a year ago," Bill explained, and held out his hand. Alphard shook it and grinned.

"How could I forget? I've never seen anyone handle Goblins like that," he recalled.

"I've never seen anyone duel like that," Bill replied lightly. Alphard had the feeling it wasn't exactly a compliment, and another stab of frustration pushed him a little further… "This is George. George, this is—"

"I know who he is," George interrupted, coming down the stairs now. The way George was eyeing him raised his hackles. Both of these Weasleys seemed far more perceptive than their younger siblings, and Alphard had experienced enough of Bill to know he was no fool. When they had first met, Bill had given him the same shrewd look as he was giving him now—like he suspected far more than he was letting on...

_...Maybe I ought to just move back to Germany,_  Alphard reflected bitterly. Britain was for the dogs. "Why do you need Ron?"

"I happen to work with him," Alphard said slowly, as though explaining that one and one made two. He pointed to his Auror badge.

"You don't have some secret special Auror communication system?"

Even Bill seemed surprised by George's level of hostility. Alphard was beginning to get sincerely angry. He turned to Bill shortly, to stop himself from firing a Hex at this prat.

"Would you mind directing me to your family home, and anywhere else I might find your brother? It's urgent."

"I'll take you there," Bill said, after a moment's deliberation. He glanced back at George, who looked him over meaningfully. "Er...just give me a moment to get... cleaned up."

Bill hastened up the stairs, leaving George and Alphard alone, much to Alphard's chagrin. Alphard's instinct was to ignore George until Bill returned, or jab at him, but for some reason he imagined Granger looking at him disapprovingly, and, feeling even more peeved, he spoke.

"Nice security system you've got, by the way. Quite clever sound effects."

George had his brows arched as he regarded Alphard, as though Alphard had told an extremely embarrassing, off-colour joke.

"...Thanks," he finally uttered.

They stood in pained silence until, at long last, just when Alphard thought he might simply combust, Bill reappeared at the top of the stairs, looking clean-shaven and far more presentable. Alphard hardly thought it was for his benefit so he assumed this had something to do with their notorious mother.

"I'll be back," he said to George. "Sorry for the wait," he said to Alphard as they left the shop. "I was a little later out of bed today than usual."

_Or, more likely, you're really bloody depressed,_  Alphard mused, thinking of the Bill Weasley he had met a year ago—a different man entirely. He wondered what had happened.

"It is Sunday, after all—I'd be having a lie-in too, if I could," Alphard said, then felt his face grow hot as he realized it almost sounded like he was implying Bill was lazy.  _Fuck it all,_  he swore to himself.  _I just can't get it right with this stupid family._

Maybe he really would move back to Germany. At least there weren't any Weasleys there.

"Here, we'll do side-along apparition," Bill said, and held out his arm.

_On the other hand_ , Alphard realized, feeling like he'd been punched as a new thought occurred to him,  _there aren't any Grangers there, either._

"Thanks," he said, and they turned on the spot together.

* * *

They reappeared in a field, in the shadow of a looming hill. A rickety little sign nearby pointed to Stoatshead Hill, and another, beneath it, to Ottery St Catchpole.

"We'll have a bit of a walk," Bill explained as they set off to Ottery St Catchpole. "Ron and I put some extra wards on the house since Ginny got abducted."

"Wise," Alphard said simply. He was thinking of how George had behaved towards him, and assumed he would encounter the same sort of treatment at the Weasley family home. "Doesn't your family home have some name...?" he prompted, mainly to take his mind off the dread gnawing at his stomach. He didn't tend to place too much import on what people thought of him, but that was because obsessing over what people thought of him was a habit he had spent years attempting to quash. Under exhaustion and pressure, his old habits were returning to him. His control was definitely slipping.

"Yeah, actually—the Burrow."

"I thought it was B-something. I couldn't remember if it was the Beehive or something."

"Hermione mentioned it?"

"No, Weas—well, your brother, does. So does Potter, now and then."

"I'm not sure who will be there today," Bill began, a warning in his voice. "It's a little more packed than usual, what with everything that's been going on..."

"Yeah, why aren't you there?"

"I have a noisy family of my own now," he said ruefully. In spite of the shallow humorous note, there was an edge in his voice that told Alphard not to push further. At any rate, they were coming up to a much-renovated, topsy-turvy stone house that even from afar seemed to be spilling over with activity. A redhead that Alphard recognized as Ginny came out of the house, chasing a garden gnome, and on the other side, a tall, thin man was being chased into a garden shed by a short, plump woman. "Mum seems to be in high spirits," Bill remarked sardonically.

"I just need your brother," Alphard said quickly, in the hopes of heading off more Weasley family interaction than strictly necessary. But avoiding the Weasleys was evidently not in the cards: they came to the front, and Arthur interrupted Molly in the middle of a sentence before they had stepped inside the shed.

"Bill! And Black," he added uncomfortably. Molly froze, looking thunderous at the sight of Bill—Alphard could guess the fact that he'd not been home was causing tension—and her expression abruptly changed to that of shock and apprehension as she took in Alphard, with his familiar face and Auror robes.

"Looking for Ron," Bill explained. "Auror business."

"It's Sunday," Molly interjected, cutting them off as they made to go in the house.

"Unfortunately, criminals don't take a day off, Mrs. Weasley," Alphard parried easily, flashing her his best responsible-policeman-type smile. She was not fooled.

"Ron's been terribly overworked," she insisted, following them. Bill had pushed past her and Alphard followed his lead, grateful that Bill seemed as motivated as he was to make this quick.

"It won't take all day," Alphard hedged.

They entered the house, which was even shabbier on the inside, and filled with plenty of signs that more people than usual were crammed in here. Another brother, shorter and stockier like George, and covered in burns and scars, was stretched out on a sofa, reading a book on Quidditch, and Ron was on the floor in pajamas, apparently playing one-sided Wizarding chess with an extremely battered-looking set.

"Black," greeted Ron in surprise, and he got to his feet immediately. Ginny burst in at that moment, and now the majority of the Weasley family was looking at Alphard with varying mixtures of shock, recognition, and—with the exception of Ron and Bill, to some extent—immense dislike. He had the notion of being surrounded, and his temper only began to creep closer to its limit.

"Auror business," Alphard said swiftly, stepping towards Ron. "I tried to find you at your flat, so I went on a hunt," he explained with a half-hearted grin that felt forced.

"Are you sure it can't wait," Mrs Weasley began again, brandishing her apron. The other brother, the one covered in burns, was staring openly at Alphard.

"As much as I'd rather not bother-" Alphard began, but Ron interrupted hastily.

"It's no problem. There are a bunch of cases going on right now," he said quickly. "Just let me grab some shoes," he muttered, and he darted up the nearby staircase, leaving Alphard with his enormous and hostile family. Alphard wondered how their math of his character came out—was he a good Auror, or was he a suspicious Death Eater in waiting? The back of his neck was growing hot with frustration.

"George didn't come too?" Ginny finally blustered, looking uncharacteristically uncomfortable.

"No need," Bill said. Alphard was noticing, with some relief, that not quite all of the hostility and discomfort was completely directed at him: Bill seemed to be getting hit with quite a bit of it, too.

Thankfully, Ron finally reappeared, having changed into actual clothes, and he scrambled to follow Alphard and Bill out of the house. When they were several metres away from the Burrow, both Bill and Alphard were able to breathe normally.

"Blimey, Bill," Ron said, shaking his head, as they headed to the Apparition point, "no one expected any of that."

"Yeah, well there was no way George was taking this one," Bill said shortly, nodding to Alphard. Ron grimaced at Alphard.

"Sorry about that, mate," he said grimly. "He doesn't know you're cool—yet," he added quickly. Alphard resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Until very recently, Ron had been even more hostile than the rest of his family put together.

"Doesn't matter. Anyway, thanks Weasley," Alphard said, turning his attention to Bill. "We'll be heading back to the Ministry now."

"Yeah, sure, no problem," Bill said vaguely, and without any more of a goodbye, he turned on the spot, leaving Alphard and Ron together. After taking a moment to recover from the strangeness of Bill Weasley, Alphard regrouped mentally.

"Zabini left Granger his entire estate," Alphard explained, turning back to Ron, who was shivering uncomfortably in the high wind. It looked like it would be snowing soon. At his words, Ron startled, seeming to forget he was cold.

"He what?" Ron blurted. "That makes no sense; they hardly-"

"We think it's related to Zabini's death—and Malfoy's death—and a host of other things, actually," Alphard continued calmly. "They're saying they can't transfer anything to her until Wednesday, but we're thinking they're going to go in there, first, and search the place—and slow us down. Nott is at large, which doesn't give us much time, and-" he paused, and sighed. "Listen, I can't request to enter the flat, because I'm in the doghouse at the moment," he said, trying a stab at humor for Ron's sake, "and Granger can't, obviously, and Potter didn't think he'd be able to get anywhere either. But you're in their good graces right now and it wouldn't look so suspicious for you to get a search warrant right now—you are on the case, at any rate."

Ron's lips twisted into a wry smirk.

"I dunno how effective I'll be," he warned, "but I'll help."

At that, Alphard grabbed Weasley, and they Apparated to the Ministry.

* * *

Half an hour later saw Alphard at the flat in Chelsea, with Ron trailing closely behind him, looking utterly bewildered to find himself in Zabini's flat. It really was a lovely walk-up, its checkered tile stoop playing off the winter roses spectacularly. It was entirely un-Hermione, in its showiness and obvious elite status, and Alphard found himself grinning as he walked up to it. He couldn't really see her ever living here—what would she do with it, once all this was over?

There was the tiniest bit of apprehension, and then he felt inside his Auror robes pocket for his wand—but Ron stopped him.

"They'll have a detection spell on that. It'd better be me," he said grimly, and he opened the lock magically, letting them inside.

The flat was just as they'd left it, though he had some sense of some disturbance: he was positive that other Aurors had rooted around in here since coming upon Zabini's will. Alphard walked slowly, looking around. The decor screamed Muggle tastes, but a mirror behind the front door, which he'd not noticed last time, caught his attention.

It was definitely Goblin craftsmanship, with its intricate frame. He was surprised it was put in such a vulnerable spot; if the door swung open too hard, it would smack into the mirror and shatter it. "Seven years of bad luck," he murmured ruefully, touching the frame. It was not a pretty mirror, not in the delicate, light way everything else in the home was pretty. It was heavy, gothic—a relic of a Pureblood home.

Alphard himself had not grown up in a Pureblood home but he'd known plenty of them thanks to Durmstrang. He knew the way the blood ran in rivers, blackened by generations of grudges and mistrust and bigotry. He knew the way objects were passed down from father to son, objects to which more meaning had been ascribed than they could possibly ever really hold. Necklaces became proof of bloodline purity; mirrors became proof of fortunes stretching back to the days of burning witches at stakes and beyond. The irony of a Goblin-made mirror coming into a Muggleborn's possession after what was likely to be a thousand years of Pureblood ownership was not lost on Alphard.

And these days, blood purity was a dated but clandestine cause. Zabini clearly had not been entirely bound by his family, judging by his purchase of this flat and his shadowy ties to Tracey, but this mirror was a nod—in the very entrance of his home—to his real heritage.

No matter where Zabini lived, no matter how many Muggle appliances and Muggle suits and Muggle friends he had, Zabini was a Pureblood and he knew it—and, in his own small way, he wanted the world to know it as well.

Alphard touched the glass now, wondering if the glass was the original—and his hand went right through to the other side.


	14. Dead Inside

Warning: this chapter contains depictions of sexual assault.

* * *

**Dead Inside**

* * *

**_2 Years Ago_ **

Theodore walked into the Ministry with his head bowed, lost in his own thoughts. His dragonhide satchel was heavy on his bony shoulder, stuffed to the brim with notes. Up ahead, at the security checkpoint, Granger was having her wand checked. She and Theodore were often competing for first to arrive at the office each day.

Granger disappeared onto the lift and now it was Theodore's turn. His wand—acacia and phoenix feather—was weighed and Theodore snatched it back, feeling significant relief when it was back in his hand once more. He avoided the eyes of the guard, Eric. Eric smelled like body odor, and cologne that had turned bad, and stale crisps; he also breathed through his mouth, which disgusted Theodore. A fleck of dried mucus fluttered in his nostril. Just looking at Eric too directly made Theodore sick, and beside that, he always got the feeling Eric's eyes were dancing with laughter at him.

" _Morning_ , Nott." That forced joviality: poking, prodding; demanding a reaction. There was no doubt that Eric had had garlic at dinner last night, and neglected to clean his teeth since then. Theodore uttered something under his breath—he wasn't even sure what he said—and hastened to the lifts, eager to get away from the burning glare of the interaction with Eric. Behind him, he heard Eric laughing with someone, and he did not turn around as he stepped onto the lift, his back warm as though there were a spotlight on it.

His department was blessedly quiet, still dark and empty. It was before seven—most people wouldn't be here for hours. Theodore wished it were always like this.

"Good morning, Nott," came Granger's crisp—and triumphant—voice from inside her office. She never bothered to say good morning when he was first in; she only did it when she had got in first. Theodore snorted and walked past her office with merely a nod before unlocking his own door, his office being directly next to hers.

It was like he'd never left the office, merely blinked. Back here again already. He dropped his things onto the desk, which was covered in parchment and wrappings from a Muggle takeaway. He did not prefer Muggle food but there wasn't much Wizarding food to be had in the vicinity of the Ministry, and he'd been here late last night. He'd not gone back to his own flat; he'd visited his mother—not that she had been aware of him, of course. It had been years since he'd actually had a conversation with her.

He closed his door, locked it, and drew the shade over the glass. The false windows let in false sunlight. He preferred an open window—even in winter—but he'd happily sacrifice fresh air for privacy. He took a thick bundle of parchment from his satchel and set it on the desk. This bundle had been his own personal project, but in the past few days it had become something far, far more, and he wanted to keep it in his line of sight at all times. But first—work.

For two sacred hours, it was quiet. He knew Granger was locked in her own office, her quill scratching away on her own case. The knowledge of her presence was almost like companionship. Around eight forty five, the outside began to buzz with the distant hum of humanity. A low buzz of irritation to match it prickled along his skin, like a current. He tried to ignore it but some compartment of his mind could not quite shut it out, and the low level of frustration that he lived with each day began to rise.

In spite of a locked door and drawn shade, he heard the lock click open—he'd already been reprimanded for putting a locking hex on his door twice before—and then Zabini was casually entering his office like he owned it. His robes were immaculate, as usual, and the stuffy office became fragrant with Zabini's aftershave and whatever he washed his robes in. It was a barely perceptible but singular scent that Theodore had associated with Zabini since Hogwarts.

"Salazar, when was the last time you let a janitor in here?" Zabini drawled, his ice-blue eyes, shocking against his blue-black skin, taking in the state of the office.

"What do you want?" Theodore made a show of not looking up. He found it difficult to meet Zabini's eyes, difficult to make eye contact with people in general, so his irritation at being interrupted was a good excuse to avoid it.

"I've got gossip and it will interest you, no doubt."

Zabini picked up the parchment that Theodore had forgot to hide. Theodore's hand twitched and his heart gave a shudder of horror, but he made no move to grab it. When you spent your childhood having things taken from you, you learned not to react when people took things from you. So often people took things just because they knew they mattered to you. "Amusing—this certainly isn't work," Zabini remarked, scanning it, before dropping it back onto the desk. "Anyway, remember Pucey's handsome party guest? The one you just  _adored_?"

"Vaguely," Theodore dismissed, even as something acidic—the memory of public humiliation—washed over him. That night had been disturbing for multiple reasons, not least of which being the strangely disjointed company that Pucey so often kept: an at-large criminal—Eric Amundsen—and an infamous Auror—Alphard Black—in one party...

But that would be Pucey for you. He'd been a sheep wearing a wolf mask at school. His inherently friendly nature was just visible enough to make his disguise technically worthless, yet he seemed to float between groups as it suited him, so apparently something was working. Maybe he was the real wolf and the rest of them were wearing the masks, but the idea of Pucey as anything other than a harmless jock was laughable.

Zabini picked up Theodore's favorite quill and ran his fingertips along the silky feathers.

"He works here now."

His mouth went dry as Theodore was immediately transported back to a moment outside of Pucey's flat: pinned in place by an imposing man in a Voldemort mask, with Draco Malfoy crumpled, sweating, weakened on the floor behind him... _"you look like someone who will do just about anything to save his own arse,"_ the man had murmured. And just on the other side of the wall, Germany's most notoriously aggressive Auror was playing butterbeer pong.

Alphard Black being here was not merely an irritation for Theodore—it was a very, very big problem for many people.

Theodore was sweating. He'd have to change his shirt underneath his robes. He wondered if Zabini noticed. Actually, he wondered whether Zabini had noticed a lot of things.

"Why should this be of importance to me?" Theodore asked, after clearing his throat. This time it was Zabini who avoided eye contact, as the handsome man toyed with the quill.

"It's of  _interest_ , not importance," Zabini corrected, somewhat snottily. "Everyone's making quite the fuss in the Auror department. Potter can't even look at him, apparently."

"Potter?" Theodore blurted, rather stupidly. He'd not expected that name to come up.

"Looks just like Sirius Black, apparently—you remember, the one who was a mass murderer, broke out of Azkaban, blah blah. He was Potter's godfather or something. His death during the Ministry break-in—the one in fifth year—was apparently a blow for Potter. That's why he's got that old crap house in London—Grimmauld Place, or something—it's because he inherited it from Sirius Black."

Theodore didn't give a bowtruckle's arse where Potter lived or why; his mind was stuck on the comment about the Ministry break-in, which Zabini knew  _full well_  had not simply been a bit of news to Theodore—it had been the beginning of a brutal, bloody, drawn-out end for his family. His father had been there, that night, and had not come out of it for the better. His stomach turned.

He dimly recalled a photograph of Sirius Black, used in the papers, and on 'wanted' posters...the matted, wild black hair; the sunken eyes. "Personally, I don't see the resemblance, but you've got to admit that his story is a little suspect. The Blacks were famous for keeping family close...to just have a distant cousin just pop out of nowhere is unexpected."

"You don't believe he's a cousin?" Theodore was surprised. Zabini snorted.

"Oh, I'm sure he's related—just look at him, he's the spitting image of Draco's  _dear_  Aunt Bellatrix—but the story of him not knowing Bellatrix or any of the Malfoys...I would say we've missed a trick. That, and he's from Durmstrang...and 'Durmstrang through and through,' they say."

Zabini looked about to continue, but Granger was knocking on the door—her bushy hair was silhouetted against the shade. Both men looked to the door and Zabini arched his brows. "I suppose that's my cue to get back to work," he said, and he dropped the quill on the desk just as Granger burst into the office, looking outraged about something, as usual.

"You took my Werewolf case!" she exploded, and Zabini shot Theodore a sly smirk before slipping out, silvery and quick as a fish.

It took work to get Granger out of his office. She was shouty, and stamped her foot quite a lot, and at one point he thought she might have seen his book, the one Zabini had picked up...It had been stupid of him to just leave it lying around; foolish,  _foolish_... After ushering her out, he locked his door once more, and leaned against it, his breathing ragged, his soaked undershirt sticking to his skin uncomfortably.

Something had to be done about this.

Why was this new Auror coming here, now? Theodore's gaze rested on his project.

Had Alphard Black been at Pucey's to investigate? Theodore stuffed his book inside his bag with shaking, sweaty palms, and began pacing, frantically. He needed to be sure that this new Auror's arrival was a coincidence, needed to be sure of this Auror's purpose... He ought to have notified Quirke but he disliked the girl; he disliked relying on her expertise to begin with, and she was so often emotional and impulsive...no, she could not be trusted with this. Better to leave her ignorant of any risk...

…More likely than not, Alphard Black was just here to investigate the very man who had been at Pucey's party...but that investigation would lead to him, for Potter was unfortunately not entirely stupid...Malfoy, of course, was a good impediment to anything leading to him; the idiot hardly even knew why Amundsen had recruited him, but he still knew he was involved, and Malfoy was like a squealing pig, only too happy to point fingers elsewhere once the slightest pressure was exerted, just like his father...

But what to do, what to do? This had clearly been a warning from Zabini, so Zabini knew something...but of course, Zabini always knew something about everyone...

Of course, Theodore knew something about Zabini too, and it was the one trick he had protecting him from Zabini…but would it be enough?

Zabini would never outright accuse him of anything, not with what Theodore had on him, but he was so skilled at suggestion, he'd simply feed smoky thoughts, whispers of ideas, to Potter and the other Aurors and lead them to him easily enough...he might already be doing that...

Theodore preferred to think from a remote, safe location. He disliked being in the thick of the action—but there was no way to do this without doing some groundwork.

He changed his undershirt and crept out of the sanctity of his office. His face was too hot as he imagined stares when he opened his door, but no one looked at him.

His heart was a lump in his throat and his eyes felt as wet as his palms. The Auror department was mere steps away but the emotional energy it cost to walk to it was not insignificant.

A small group of junior Aurors was gathered in the hall outside of Furness' office, whispering excitedly. None of them paid Theodore any mind until he was standing by them. A tall lanky one with glasses and a rather monkey-like face—Whelkes, it was—finally looked over at him. Theodore didn't like him. Whelkes always spoke to him like he was doing him some sort of favor.

"Mr. Nott," he greeted obsequiously. "What can we help you with?"

_Hufflepuff,_  Theodore thought disdainfully.

"I heard that there is a new Auror," he remarked. "I assume that is why you are all gathered around the door like this."

A few of them glanced between each other, stifling smirks. Whelkes spoke again, rather magnanimously.

"There is, in fact. He's from Germany's Auror department. He got rather close to beating Auror Potter's time on the obstacle course," Whelkes explained. "No one's come that close. And he'll be coming in at the same level as Auror Potter."

They were whispering excitedly so they didn't back away from the door in time, just as it opened: Furness, a rangy-looking man with a balding, shiny head and a broom-like mustache, was ushering Alphard Black and Potter out the door.

And now Theodore was face-to-face with Potter, looking down his nose at Potter's slightly askew glasses and extraordinary green eyes. To his surprise, Potter looked like he was about to Hex someone.

"Nott," he greeted coldly, and roughly pushed past Theodore, leaving Theodore now faced with Alphard Black.

He would have expected an immediate reaction from Black, but it clearly took Black a moment to recognize Theodore at all.

"Sorry, have we met?" His dark eyes were dancing with amusement at something, and he stuck out his hand. "You seem to have been waiting for me."

The other Aurors had scurried away, not wanting to have been caught eavesdropping. Theodore limply shook his hand, feeling disgusted. He made a mental note to wash his hands later.

"You wouldn't have, Black; Nott's with Magical Law," Furness was explaining. "Did you need something, Nott?"

"…Jurator Granger wanted some advice on the Werewolf case," Theodore said, rather lamely. "I came to help her acquire a second opinion." The lie was painfully obvious, and Furness looked at him like he'd grown a second head. Black's thin handsome lips were curving into a smirk that read,  _you've been caught._

"…Certainly, I'll go to her office myself," Furness finally said dubiously. Anxiety roiled in his stomach; his lie would be further exposed when Granger made it clear that she hadn't asked—in fact, she'd been so angry because he had taken that case from her under her nose—and then everyone would have confirmation that he'd only come to the Auror department because he was being nosy.

Nevertheless, he and Black were now alone again.

"Ah!" Black slapped his palm to his forehead. "I couldn't remember where I'd seen you—but the pathetic look on your face just now reminded me. You're the bloke from Pucey's party!"

"Your manners are legendary," Theodore snapped. He needed to keep his cool; needed to find a way to gain some insight on why Black was here,  _now_.

And if he was here now because of Theodore's research, or because he was hunting Amundsen, then he needed to decide exactly what he would do about it. None of the options involved him staying safe behind his desk. "And just what graces our lowly Ministry with your illustrious presence?"

"Change of scenery," Black said pleasantly, making no move to debate Theodore's phrasing. "That, and I had someone I've been dying to meet," he added cryptically, and Theodore thought he might be sick.

"Really," he prompted, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth, a ringing in his ears. Black maneuvered so that Theodore was forced to meet his dark gaze.

"Really," Black said simply.

* * *

Theodore had almost forgot how he had implicated Granger in his stupid lie, until he returned to his office, head burning with hatred for Black, and saw her skulking around his office, looking not angry, as he had expected, but deeply uneasy.

"I'm sorry about Furness," Theodore said immediately, as he unlocked his door and let them both inside. Granger was wringing her hands. "I went to the Auror department to see what I could learn about this new Auror and got caught and—well, I've never been the best liar," he confessed, deciding on the truth—at least part of it—being his best bet. Granger could sniff out liars nearly as well as Zabini could.

"I reckoned as much," she dismissed with a wave of her wand. "I can't fault you, because Ron told me that he's just  _awful._ " She shook her head. "He reckons he's Dark," she added, rising to pace about his office. "What did you think?"

Granger's faith in him popped up at odd moments, often rendering him speechless. Theodore sat at his desk and regarded her as he recovered from his surprise.

"Apparently he nearly bested Potter's time on some…obstacle course," Theodore said, unable to hide his disdain for the Auror's qualifications. Granger looked exceedingly upset at this.

"I heard. Ron said it was like a Dark Arts testimonial," she moaned. "I've always been suspicious of Furness, you know, and now he brings in this man who's from Durmstrang and has all sorts of rumors. I owled Viktor Krum immediately, of course—"

"—He responded rather quickly," Theodore blurted out. As far as he knew, Krum was somewhere in eastern Europe.

"He's living in Britain," Granger explained. She went a bit pink. "He's always been—er—very good about responding to my owls quite quickly."

Theodore recalled that Granger had dated the Quidditch player and was abruptly reminded of how Black had dressed up as Krum for Pucey's Halloween party. He considered telling her this, but decided against it. "They were in the same year at Durmstrang, you know, and Viktor—well, he's always quite fair, but he had nothing good to say about this Black," she continued darkly.

"He seems a bit arrogant," Theodore said carefully. He thought it best to keep any dislike for Black to a minimum, should anything come to any sort of legal consequences. "Truthfully, he reminds me a bit of Potter," he added, realizing this was true just as the words came out of his mouth.

"Ron said that too," Granger said thoughtfully. "Apparently he looks like Sirius."

"I heard that as well, but I personally didn't see it," Theodore replied. "Zabini saw Bellatrix Lestrange in his face, and I suppose I could see it, but I didn't interact with her much, if at all."

"I wonder if Malfoy ever met him," Granger pondered, tapping her lip with her finger—a sure sign that her keen mind was making connections…

"He didn't," Theodore blurted, and then felt like slapping himself. Granger peered at him curiously.

"You already spoke with him?"

"Er—no, Zabini told me. I asked him that as well," Theodore said hastily. He'd thought this would mollify her, but Granger looked unconvinced.

"Odd," she said, a touch of coolness to her voice. "Because I asked Zabini about that too and he said he didn't know."

"Interesting," Theodore said coolly, dismissively, hoping he could come across as casual enough to not be upset by this discrepancy. But Granger was eying him now, and he didn't like it.

"Oh, and just for my trouble, I'll be taking the Werewolf case back," she said suddenly, her voice crisp once more.

"Fine, take it," Theodore said diffidently, and with her rather snub nose up in the air, she turned on her heel and left his office.

* * *

Malfoy was not so stupid as to Owl him about this, of course—none of them could betray the slightest bit of discomfort at Black's appointment to the Auror department.

But Theodore was hardly surprised when he returned to his flat that night and found Draco there, pacing about the flat with that stupid cane his father had so favored, poking his pointed pale nose where it didn't belong. When Theodore opened his front door and caught Draco, the Malfoy didn't even flinch in his perusal of Theodore's mail.

"We have a problem," Draco drawled, "as I'm sure you've deduced by now."

"Is he here?" Theodore asked, shutting the door behind him.

"Don't be ridiculous," Draco snapped, finally looking up from snooping. "He's hiding at a Muggle house—it's unfortunate but necessary—and they're already on him. I've not had proper contact with him."

"Does he know  _not_  to go to the church—"

"Of course he does!" Draco's face became flushed. "Honestly, he's not lasted this long on the run by being an idiot." But Theodore had not forgot how furious Draco had been, that night outside Pucey's party, to find Amundsen there. Of course, Draco would never lower himself by siding with Theodore against Amundsen.

"Then as long as nobody does anything foolish, we have nothing to fear," Theodore said as he shed his cloak. He disliked other people being in his flat; he felt exposed. Draco's probing gaze had already taken in the empty Firewhiskey bottles, the piles of dirty laundry.

"I've heard you've already done something foolish," Draco said levelly, his eyes glittering as he fixed his gaze on Theodore. There was some strange exhilaration to his eyes. "You confronted Black?"

"I—It was hardly a confrontation," Theodore snapped.

"You made a mess," Draco said simply. He stepped away from Theodore's mail and made a show of dusting his hands. "Now, clean it up."

* * *

_**Present Day** _

* * *

On the rare occasions that Hermione had previously entered the Department of Mysteries, she had been distracted by memories of breaking into the department, but this time her mind was strangely clear. She had already decided on  _expelliarmus_  as her go-to spell, so she didn't hesitate as she flung open doors in search of the Death Chamber.

The third door was the trick, and Hermione had her wand at the ready as she scanned the stadium-like room for her quarry—

—And then a rough grip was on her, and the door slammed shut behind her. Darkness ensconced her.  _Expelli—_ she began, but calloused hands had knocked her wand out of her grip. She heard it clatter to the floor and roll away. She was grunting and gasping, and so was her attacker.

Instincts honed by the war kicked in: she kneed her attacker in the groin, but at the last instant he twisted her so that her knee hit his upper thigh uselessly. Something cold was digging into her throat, and warm breath was on her face, but she couldn't see, and her damned hair was in her face—

"What is your name?" a familiar voice growled in her ear as the assailant twisted her body.

Her face was mashed against the door, and that was definitely a wand tip pressing into her jugular. With her arms twisted at odd angles, her wrists locked behind her, Hermione blindly attempted to extricate herself. "Answer me."

The voice was familiar. Low, cool, but slightly rough—and abruptly Hermione recognized it.

"Bill?!"

* * *

Alphard's hand knocked into something hard and hollow; he could hear the object wobbling before he fixed his grip on the edge, and tried to grasp it—only to realize that whatever it was, it was made of very heavy stone, and he'd need two hands to pull it out.

He pulled a shallow stone basin from the mirror's glass, which was cool and liquid on his hands. Ancient runes had been scratched into its rim, and silvery stuff, as languid and elegant as Zabini's movements had been, swirled at the bottom. Alphard's heart pounded. He was holding a Pensieve.

He looked round, holding his breath, eyes narrowed as he searched for any sign of the Ministry—or anyone else that might not want him to have found this.

_But doesn't this seem too lucky?_ A little voice, that same, nagging voice, taunted him as he stared down at the Pensieve. The voice continued on, a little stronger, and a little reminiscent of Granger:  _Why did you even touch the mirror, anyway? Do you normally go around caressing old mirrors?_

… _Or is this the Imperius Curse again?_

Alphard dropped the bowl on the narrow console table like it was contaminated; like if he stopped touching, it he could protect his head from Nott.

He stood there, fists clenched, breathing hard, searching his own mind.  _Never could fight off the Imperius Curse so well, could you?_ The maddening voice continued, and fury shook his fists.  _Potter's been known to excel at it, of course…but you're so bad at it, you can't even tell when you've been Imperiused._

He had half a mind to run up to Weasley and ask his opinion, but the idea of seeking help from Weasley, of all people—tagalong, desperate, sidekick Weasley—was repugnant.

But why had he touched the mirror? He hadn't expected his hand to go through the glass. He hadn't expected anything, really: he'd simply noticed it and recognized it as a Pureblood artifact. It hadn't even occurred to him that the mirror might be anything other than an ugly old mirror.

His reflection scowled back at him mutinously, and Alphard felt like smashing the mirror. He hated his reflection. He turned away from it, feeling his face grow hot. He was trapped between his own reflection and his fears of Nott.

His mind felt unsafe, and abruptly he recalled something Granger had said:  _Ever feel like your mind isn't safe, and your life isn't safe, so you can't actually_ exist _anywhere?_  They had been sitting in that Muggle diner, listening to the Beatles, and he'd told her—lied to her—like a protective parent selfishly trying to shield a child from harsh reality:  _Your mind is safe._ The words had been so fluid and automatic that he'd almost believed himself.

But now he was confronted by the truth, as he hid from his own reflection, as he wasted time trying to grasp whether his mind was currently dirtied with Nott's presence: your mind could hurt you more deeply than anything else could. No words, no knife, no spell could do nearly as much damage to you as your mind could.

He crouched down, grasping at his own hair, desperate. Was Nott controlling him even now, making him wonder whether he was being Imperiused? Or was this all him? Which would be worse?

Sickened, his skin crawling as though he'd felt a spider on him, Alphard straightened, and drew in a deep, steeling breath. He was wasting time, and he had to make a decision. He'd always been best at split-second decisions forced in the heat of a crisis; trying to puzzle things out was where he so often fell short.

"That's that, then," he muttered bracingly, and turned back to the Pensieve; the pearly, effervescent thoughts within swirled luminously. He would never be able to tear himself from a Pensieve—at least this, he knew, he was choosing of his own volition. Like Legilimency, like peering into someone's diary, like overhearing whispered gossip, Alphard was immediately pulled to it.

He had to know the secrets. He had always been like this.

Weasley was still upstairs, creeping around, and Alphard didn't waste any more time. He dove right in.

* * *

"Answer the question." The voice was stronger, smoother now: Bill was in control and Hermione was not.

"Hermione Jean Granger," she panted, still out of breath and in slight shock. "I dated your brother; H-harry Potter has your uncle Fabian's wristwatch; I-I," she stammered, searching frantically for ways to prove her identity. This proved surprisingly difficult. "Your mum has a clock that shows whether your family members are in mortal peril; er, you had a Brazilian pen-friend at some point in school whom you offended; you were attacked by Fenrir Greyback when Death Eaters broke into Hogwarts-"

"Alright."

The grip on her wrists was released; Hermione stumbled back from the door, massaging her wrists and shaking slightly, and turned to face Bill.

He looked awful. His face was ashen underneath the scars; his hair was streaked with grey and, though longer than ever and pulled back haphazardly, seemed to be thinning. He must have shaved that morning, because he'd nicked himself, and the mark was angry and stood out on his pale skin. He looked like he'd slept in his clothes—for a week.

They regarded each other warily. Hermione did not know Bill well; they rarely interacted and when they did, they more or less had nothing to say to each other. Bill was studying her carefully, and her skin prickled under his dissecting gaze.

"Sorry about that," Bill finally muttered, stepping back. He knelt down and retrieved her wand for her. Over his shoulder, she could see he must have been sitting in front of the Veil, on one of the levels of the stadium-like space: for a large mug of coffee and stacks of notes were spread out before it. He'd spilled an inkbottle in his haste to halt her; it was pooling, shining, thin and dark like blood, staining his notes. "Can't be too careful—especially in this room. What are you doing here?"

"What are  _you_  doing here?" she parried, still slightly shaken. She raked a hand through her hair, feeling horribly self-conscious—Bill had always had that effect on her, like she was suddenly put under a spotlight too bright to properly identify a surely jeering audience watching her from behind the light.

"Special project," Bill said simply, passing her wand back to her and gesturing for her to follow as he returned to his workspace. With a flick of his wand, the inkbottle righted itself, the black liquid streaming back into it, and Hermione was abruptly reminded of the smashed inkbottle in Nott's office. How much should she divulge, she wondered, about why she was here?

"What would Gringotts want with the Veil?" she blurted. She knew Bill had returned to his role as Cursebreaker some years after the war. He had had the same mysterious 'desk job' with the Ministry for a few years, which had mostly comprised tasks to help rebuild the Wizarding community. Supposedly, according to accounts from his siblings, he'd got bored of the desk job quickly, and had returned to Gringotts, looking for something more stimulating.

Now she realized that none of that was true.

She and Bill stared at each other once more as her heart began to pound again. Either Bill had been outright lying about his profession, or he was about to become tangled in a web of very serious crimes.

Actually, she amended mentally: in any case, he was about to become tangled in that very web.

"Hermione, you know I can't answer that," Bill said calmly. She noticed that he'd nonverbally righted his notes, stacking them and sliding them back into a larger portfolio, though he'd never uttered a word and was gazing at her calmly as this happened.

Her stomach gave a great swooping lurch as it hit her: a sudden awareness, a lightning bolt of realization.

It was like a wave abruptly pulling back from the shoreline, revealing, for a brief flash, a skeletal shipwreck, only to be obscured by frothing, murky surf once more. She looked at the Veil out of the corner of her eye, perceiving the ancient runes carved into the crude stone. They weren't the ancient runes she had studied at Hogwarts: these were far older, far beyond ancient in age. These were ancient runes whose meaning was still being studied.

"What are you hoping to learn from this project?" she asked casually, even as her hands shook, looking back to Bill. She just needed to get closer—the runes were too hard to read from here—and mentally she kept clawing back to that brief flash of complete insight. How had she not realized, before now?

She had missed it completely. The answer had been in plain sight, all along, and she'd  _missed_  it.

"Oh, only to uncover the mystery of death," Bill replied with a sly levity. "What are you here for, anyway?"

"J-just heard that someone was writing a book about the Veil, and got a bit curious," she replied, a ringing pulsing in her ears. Bill snorted.

"Should've known a book would make you burst in here like that. What book?" he asked innocently.

"It's in the process of being written. I think Nott was involved, and an Unspeakable—"

"—Which one?" Bill asked, his voice hard again. He moved—almost imperceptibly—to block her view of the Veil.

"Erm, I can't quite recall her name," Hermione pretended to dither, as she took another step, hoping to play dumb. But the shrewdness in Bill's eyes told her that her performance was not convincing.

"Her?"

_So either he's an Unspeakable, or…_  The possibilities fanned out in her mind's eye as she debated her next move. Her mouth was dry. She  _needed_ to look at the Veil, needed to see what runes were on it… and she also needed, she suspected, to contact the Auror department  _right now._

"You know, I have no idea what her name was!" she said in a high voice, and then she did what she would later identify as her biggest mistake. It was so subtle, such a tiny movement, a combination of movements, really.

She tilted her head slightly, in a foolish and almost unconscious attempt to look over Bill's shoulder once more. At the same time, her traitorous right hand reflexively tightened on her wand.

"I'm sorry—" Bill began, and a jet of light came at her. Hermione blocked it in the nick of time, and it bounced off her  _protego,_ but before she had even grappled with  _expelliarmus_  in her mind, Bill fired another jinx at her.

"Bill!" she shrieked in surprise, ducking hastily. She attempted to disarm, but their jinxes collided in midair, sending red sparks everywhere.

"I don't want to do this," he warned as they regarded each other, wands drawn, shoulders heaving. "But there's so much at risk; I can't guarantee that you're not one of—"

Her gaze flicked to the Veil as she cast  _expelliarmus_ , and Bill's wand flew out of his hand.

This was her chance, and it hardly mattered what happened afterwards; she could handle any aftermath. Hermione ducked towards the Veil desperately, and several things happened at once: Bill snatched up his wand; in doing so, he brushed against his notes and knocked down the stack. Sheaves and sheaves of rune-covered parchment spilled out, splaying; Hermione glanced at the paper irresistibly, and saw the anastasis, clearly, next to  ** _Alphard Black_** ; she tripped just as Bill shot  _expelliarmus_  at her; she fired a random Hex because it was the first to come to mind and it bounced dramatically off Bill's shield charm and hit her just as she was trying to brace herself to fall.

Bill shouted "no!" just as everything went black.

* * *

Alphard had landed in a darkened dungeon, at the center of a room full of four-poster beds. Emerald fire glowed from wall-mounted braziers, and heavy emerald tapestries winked with silver embroidery in the dim light.  _Gosh, could this be the Slytherin dormitories?_  Alphard mused with a smirk, observing those silver serpents.

It was late. Snores could be heard behind the curtains. Alphard peered in them at random, and with a jolt was greeted by the sight of a young teen Pucey, flattened out on his stomach, drooling thoroughly into his pillow, going about sleep with the same abandon and gusto that he did everything else in his life. Alphard crept back away from the bed, moving through the curtains like a ghost. He had been inside thoughts from Pensieves before; Zabini's memories were proving to be thorough and careful. Few people could retain such clarity to old memories.

Zabini was slouched against his pillows, reading by wandlight, but it was so dark that the cover was inscrutable. Footsteps, echoing off the stone, made Alphard step back.

Malfoy had strutted in, smirking; his robes and hair were mussed to exaggeration. He had clearly hoped he'd be seen, so he could let as many people know without directly bragging that he had been snogged quite thoroughly.

Malfoy went to his own four-poster, hesitated, and then looked toward Zabini's. A shadow of something crossed his pale face, and he crept over, wand at the ready, and tore aside the curtain.

Zabini's hand holding the book twitched like he wanted to hide it, but Zabini was clearly too clever to do something like that. It would only put Malfoy on the scent.

"Parkinson?" Zabini deduced, his light blue eyes taking in Malfoy's mussed appearance.

"Greengrass, actually," Malfoy corrected him in a low voice—but not too low—looking even more pleased. Alphard fought the urge to laugh. If Daph didn't sack him, he'd thoroughly relish teasing her for hooking up with Malfoy.

"I daresay that's an improvement," Zabini hedged, and then looked back to his book. Malfoy looked annoyed by Zabini's lack of enthusiasm.

"Reading? What, are you turning into Mudblood Granger?" he asked scathingly. Zabini didn't look up from his text.

"That would be more clever if she weren't absolutely clobbering both of us in Potions," he said dispassionately, turning the page. Alphard was smirking again, imagining a preteen Granger decimating her competition.  _Call her Mudblood all you want, but she still kicked your arse,_ he thought with some satisfaction.

There was a very intentional coughing, and both boys ignored it. Alphard glanced around, wondering where it had come from.

"Seriously, what are you—" Malfoy reached out to grab the book, and Zabini snatched it out of reach, so that Malfoy was leaning over the bed.

"Ahem."

Another fake-coughing fit. Malfoy and Zabini's eyes met, irresistibly, and they burst into fits of sniggering. Malfoy reached for the book again and Zabini rolled over, keeping it out of harm's way. Still laughing, the boys, both now on the bed, engaged in a furious tussle over the book.

"Give—it—here—"

"AHEM."

"Nott, would you like a glass of water?" Draco drawled, paused in the middle of pinning Zabini underneath him. Both boys shook with laughter.

Silence.

Zabini used the opportunity to Hex Malfoy and the blond swore loudly but sniggered all the same, then grabbed Zabini's wrists and held them in place, so he was now crouched over Zabini. Alphard began to feel rather uncomfortable, but he'd never look away. Their eyes met and they held the breathless gaze for a beat too long.

"You're just laying there," Malfoy said suddenly, rolling off Zabini. "Salazar, you're a fag sometimes."

The word hit the air like a slap. Malfoy had turned away hastily, stumbling back to his own four-poster. The curtains round Zabini's bed had fluttered shut again, and Alphard went to peer inside.

Zabini lay as though paralyzed, eyes fixed on the canopy, chest rising and falling rapidly. It was only now that Alphard could see the book he had been so furtively reading:  _Jude the Obscure._

What, Alphard wondered, was more shameful to Zabini: his apparent predilection for Muggle literature, or his possible homosexuality?

Alphard could not help but think of Nott, a few beds away, who had overheard the whole thing.

The dormitory faded, and Alphard found himself standing in an enormous hall, its ceiling magically transparent, with hundreds of floating candles. It had to be Hogwarts, too—it was packed with teenagers, seated at long benches. Alphard swiveled, looking for Zabini, but his eyes landed on something that distracted him.

An adolescent Potter was seated at the Gryffindor table, looking Byronic in his angst. He had a pinched, hungry look about him, and the scars across his hand were much brighter, more distinctive, than Alphard knew them to be. They were fresh, then. Across from him, Granger was studying him, and Weasley was preoccupied by arguing with other people at the table.

Hermione was studying Harry like he was a puzzle, though Harry plainly had no idea he was being stared at; he seemed to be consumed with some higher trouble, glaring into his untouched food.

And then Draco Malfoy stalked by, but he was alone this time, his face deeply shadowed. He'd grown into his features a bit more. With his pale hair and pointed face set off by his black robes, he looked rather compelling. Like Potter, he seemed rather preoccupied by his own angst as he slunk towards one of the other long tables.

_Ah, that's right,_ he recalled something Granger had said recently:  _Hogwarts isn't just any school, and if you'll recall, Malfoy was assigned to murder Dumbledore._

It was easy to guess that was this year—there was a sense of tension about to burst throughout the whole hall, and Draco looked like some sort of literary anti-hero, with his preoccupations and angst. Draco skirted the Gryffindor table broadly, but he was looking at Potter. Potter seemed to sense Draco's gaze on him and whipped his head round, following Malfoy. And in Malfoy's gaze there was some hunger, not totally dissimilar to the hunger in Granger's gaze.

Alphard laughed to himself. He'd got the wrong end of the stick, then, when he'd suggested Potter had been in love with Malfoy. He watched Potter turn back to glaring at his bowl of porridge, with new, heightened self-consciousness in every lean line of his body. Alphard now realized just how many people were looking at Potter, all wanting something from him. Potter was scowling, looking especially angry, and Alphard wondered if he was sinking into his anger to avoid acknowledging the depth of the way Malfoy looked at him. That, he knew, was what Potter did to avoid what made him uncomfortable: he let flames of anger engulf him, protecting him from those softer, subtler dangers.

And then he saw Zabini, where Malfoy was now sitting down. The figures of Granger and Potter became a bit blurred; Zabini had clearly stopped paying attention to them now that Malfoy was no longer staring at Potter. Reluctantly, Alphard waded through the sea of students to the Slytherin table, where he assumed he would have been seated—only, two years ahead of the rest of them. He likely had already graduated from Durmstrang by this point; he had been out of school for a couple of years when he had heard about Voldemort's defeat.

A young Pucey was eagerly talking Quidditch tactics next to Malfoy and Zabini; with a start, Alphard realized he was looking at a sixteen year old Daphne, who was not even pretending to listen to Parkinson prattle on about something.

Malfoy looked distracted; he snapped at Parkinson, who grew surly and silent after that. Dumbledore stood up and made an announcement, but the speech was garbled; evidently, Zabini had not been paying attention to Dumbledore. Everything had become a bit blurred as Malfoy, staring at Dumbledore, became crystal clear, almost too sharp in image. The world seemed to pound like a war drum—it had to be Zabini's blood pounding in his ears.

Zabini was staring at Malfoy, not in desire but in concern—or the closest thing to concern that Zabini could approximate. Dumbledore stopped speaking, and Malfoy abruptly stood, looking flushed and scattered. He stumbled away from the table, not even paying mind to his friends' words of concern and confusion, bumping into seated students as he went, and hastened towards the entrance of the hall.

After a moment, Zabini too slipped away, though mostly unnoticed, and followed Draco. Alphard looked around, and saw Nott staring at them—he and Parkinson were the only ones who had noticed that Zabini had left. It seemed important that Zabini clearly remembered that they had noticed.

He could only follow the boys, so he hurried through the tables, seeing familiar faces here and there. They left the Great Hall and then Zabini was striding, his long legs catching up with Malfoy's paces easily.

"Draco." Zabini had raised his voice slightly; Malfoy clearly had heard him but kept walking, his form held tensely. The blond made a sharp right and darted down dark mossy steps that led to one of the dungeons. " _Draco._ " Zabini's voice, hard and warm with fire, bounced off the cold wet walls, but Malfoy only hurried more. Alphard sprinted after them, Malfoy's blond hair gleaming like moonlight in the dim light as Zabini followed him further into the bowels of the castle.

In a dark, wet corridor, Zabini's shadow chased Malfoy's, their footsteps splattering as they broke out into sprints. And Alphard ran too, thinking he could hear his own footsteps hitting the wet stone, but that was impossible. He skidded to a stop as Malfoy ducked into a dungeon, and Zabini nearly slipped as he tried to halt and follow him.

Alphard sensed another presence, but he was afraid to miss anything—he went after Zabini into the dungeon.

A single window—level with the ground outside—let in a patch of grey light, as water streamed in, flooding the dungeon floor. Gasping, breath clouding in the air, Malfoy now faced Zabini, wand drawn, his silvery blond hair in disarray, plastered wetly to his temples and neck.

"Running after me? Got nothing better to do?" Malfoy spat, his grip on his wand tightening.

"I don't know why I'm bothering," Zabini marveled, shaking his head. "But I have to admit, it is a bit satisfying that I finally got eight whole words from you. That's the most I've got in six months."

"I've been busy," Malfoy said evasively. He hadn't lowered his wand yet.

An older Zabini would never have followed Malfoy; would never have got caught up in this argument. But sixteen-year-old Zabini was more passionate, and less self-possessed.

"Busy with the Dark Lord, yes," Zabini sneered, his lip curling. "You're very important now, aren't you?"

Malfoy's eyes flashed. "Yes, I know all about your stupid  _assignment,_ " Zabini continued, voice dripping with derision, as he approached Malfoy.

"You're obsessed with me, have you noticed?" Malfoy shot at him, backing away. There was a note of hysteria in his voice.

"You're acting like a fool. Do you really think You-Know-Who has given you your special assignment because he thinks you'll succeed?"

"I will succeed."

"You will die, and one of the  _grown-ups_  will finish the job. Meanwhile, your parents will presumably have paid for their sins of betrayal and desertion."

"If it's really that bad, why are you trying to stop me? I know there's nothing you enjoy more than seeing me look foolish," Malfoy spat. He was backed into a corner now, and the emotion twisting Zabini's features, his skin wet with sweat and—perhaps—tears, made Alphard draw in a short, dissatisfying breath.

"I enjoy seeing you look foolish, not  _dead_." Zabini reached out an elegant hand; it lingered above Malfoy's shoulder. Malfoy's eyes, wild and dilated, fixed on Zabini's hand like it was an unpleasant insect about to sting him. "Draco, you can't pretend—" he began desperately, his voice strangely open and vulnerable, and then he was stepping closer, so that Malfoy was pressed against the wet stone.

" _Get away_ ," Malfoy growled as Zabini let out a cry of pain and stumbled back, clutching his hand—he'd been Hexed. Malfoy's wand was shaking in his hand. "I swear to Salazar, get the hell away from me. What, were you going to bloody  _kiss_  me? You look at me more pathetically than Parkinson does."

"I feel as pathetic as Parkinson, sometimes," Zabini hissed through teeth clenched in pain. He straightened, slowly. "You don't hate it though, I know you don't." There was that desperation, that vulnerability again. It was ugly, and especially pathetic, coming from Zabini, who was so cool, so self-possessed, so in control, normally.

"I don't hate it; I'm disgusted by it," Malfoy snarled. He stepped forward, his wand digging into Zabini's chest. "It's unnatural, it's a deformity. You might as well be a Mudblood."

"Then you're just as deformed as I am," said Zabini. "I've seen how you look at Potter."

"Don't!"

Their wands clattered to the floor; their anger had reduced them to the impulsive, foolish teenage boys they were, brawling with bare fists. Malfoy tried to get his hands round Zabini's neck, and Zabini choked and scrambled; his shoes slipped on the mossy, wet flagstone, and then Malfoy was sitting on Zabini's chest, pale hands almost ghostly white against Zabini's blue-black skin. Zabini twisted and writhed, his legs kicking wildly, and his eyes were wild as he desperately fought to breathe. Malfoy's silvery blond hair was coming out of its neat, slicked-back styling; clumps of fine blond hair hung in his face, which was ruddy and flushed with exertion, his skin damp and shining.

And then Zabini had toppled Malfoy over, and then he was pinning Malfoy to the ground with shaking hands.

" _You're_  deformed," Zabini choked out, his voice ragged from Malfoy's chokehold on him. "See? You're deformed too."

Zabini's hand went under Malfoy's robes. Malfoy abruptly stopped struggling. He froze. Their gazes locked as Zabini grasped him. "You want this. Don't tell me I'm pathetic, don't tell me I'm deformed. Don't act like there's the least bit difference between us. The only thing that's different is that I'm not afraid of it," Zabini gasped.

Alphard began to feel sick; he leaned against the stone wall, though he couldn't feel its cool, wet surface. He wished he could; wished he had something real to hold onto.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of Zabini's ragged, desperate breaths, and then Malfoy was snarling, fighting back once more. And then Zabini had clapped his hand over Malfoy's mouth, and let out furious, choked sobs. Their shadows moved, silhouetted by the grey light, rhythmic patches of darkness, breaths rising like fog above them.

Alphard had seen many ugly things. He had always known how to protect himself from getting too close. He didn't know how to protect himself from this.

Some time later, they lay there in a tangled heap, and then Malfoy dragged himself away, shaking and sweaty, and he ran, unhindered by Zabini. Zabini lay there, eyes open but unseeing, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

At long last he covered his face with his elegant hands.  _Shame._ Alphard knew that emotion.

Zabini sat up, shaking, lost in a fog, and when he turned round, he let out a gasp, as did Alphard.

In the entrance to the dungeon, Nott was standing there, too tall, too thin, hunched like a praying mantis.

How long had he been there?

What had he seen?

The two boys stared at each other. The look on Nott's rabbity face was not one of triumph, or horror, but of abject sadness. It was almost as pathetic as the look on Zabini's face.

"Zabini—" he began, stepping forward.

"Get away from me," Zabini snarled, and shot a Hex at Nott. Nott dodged it.

"I saw," he said in a shaking, feverish voice.

"You saw nothing, and don't forget it, lest I be tempted to remind you," Zabini hissed.

"I saw enough. I knew it. I always knew," Nott was babbling. " _I saw_ ," he pressed.

Zabini pushed past him and began to run. "I SAW!"

Nott's voice echoed off the halls of the corridor. Zabini's footsteps faded, and the dungeon began to dissolve around Alphard, Nott fading from him into nothingness.


	15. Follow Me

**Follow Me**

* * *

**_Two Years Earlier_ **

* * *

Theodore despised Black so much that he found it difficult to look at the man, let alone spend time tailing him. But as he had no choice, he did as he had always done: he set aside how he was feeling, and focused on what he must do.

For weeks, he tailed Alphard Black at every opportunity that he had. But between visiting his mother, working at his job, researching with Quirke, and catering to Amundsen's demands, Theodore was overwhelmed, and there were only a few minutes left each day to tail Black. He'd never been this busy in his life.

At first, Black was extremely dull to tail, and, so tired from all the other responsibilities in his life, Theodore had to struggle to pay attention. He left his flat, which was so pristine even Zabini would have approved, on time each day for work. He went straight to the Ministry. After work, he often went running through Muggle London, attracting admiring looks with his raven hair and lean physique. Most nights, he met up with Pucey and the others to drink heavily, though Black himself rarely overindulged. He would go home, occasionally accompanied by a witch, and be ready for work just the same the next morning. On his weekends, he either rode a motorbike out of London and into the country, driving aimlessly, or else he obsessively cleaned his flat.

Black was far more of a loner than he would have expected. His main pursuits were solitary, he had no steady girlfriend, and Pucey seemed to be his closest friend, though their friendship lacked any sort of depth. Alphard Black lived a shallow life—not entirely unlike Theodore.

Often, when Black went into Muggle London, Theodore noticed a middle-aged woman, likely Muggle, also tailing him. It was clear that Black either didn't notice her or was entirely unconcerned about her. She would be posted in cafes across the road, or lingering at nearby crosswalks. She seemed satisfied to simply get a glimpse of Black, and then she would be on her way. She didn't look anything like him, though she looked too young to be his mother, but then, too old to be a former lover or girlfriend.

At work, on the rare occasion that they ran into each other, Theodore had to exert himself to behave normally around Black. He had become extremely well-acquainted with Black's habits and lifestyle over the past few months, to the point where he felt like he knew the man rather well, and it was easy to forget that this was only due to his stalking efforts. But as far as Black knew, the number of conversations they had had could have been counted off with one hand, and all had been utterly in enmity.

But Theodore had developed a perverse interest in the man, and long after Malfoy and Amundsen had agreed that Black appeared to pose no immediate threat to them, Theodore found himself still tailing him.

It was habitual; almost comforting. He lost countless hours to tailing Black, and when he wasn't tailing him, he found his mind wandering to Black irresistibly, like a riddle he had not yet solved.

Black made him think of a former prisoner, or one who is atoning for past sins: like he was intentionally keeping his life small, barren. Theodore knew what that was like. The similarities he found between their lives was eerie: he wished he could talk to Black. His animosity melted away, to be replaced by an odd protectiveness. Black was sad. After months of tailing him, he knew this for fact, though Black never showed any outward signs of sadness.

And then, one day, Theodore followed Black to a place called Grimmauld Place, out in Muggle London. Black had Disillusioned himself and so the two men hung about the square, invisible, with Black clearly waiting for something.

Theodore almost gasped. Potter, and his girlfriend the Weasley girl, left number twelve, bundled up in their coats, evidently caught up in some sort of debate.

As soon as Potter and the Weasley girl were gone, Black seemed unable to contain himself: he melted back into being, and it now occurred to Theodore that his hair seemed shorter, his clothes a bit scruffier. To the casual observer, it could easily have been Potter, going back into his house.

Black was a professional: he didn't look around, didn't hesitate as he went to the door, and opened it like the place belonged to him.

Theodore couldn't follow him inside, but for weeks, he observed Black follow this routine. He'd enter the house, and leave just in time to not be caught by Potter returning.

What was he doing? Why was he there?

One day, Black took something. Theodore didn't even know what he had taken until Black returned to his flat, and left it on his kitchen table. Black changed into his normal clothing and then left, likely to meet up with Pucey, and Theodore could freely enter the flat, as he sometimes did, and inspect what Black had taken from Potter's home.

It was an old photograph, or rather, a copy of one. In black and white, three people smiled and laughed back at Theodore: a woman with long, gleaming hair that was likely dark red or brown, wearing a white dress; a man with untidy hair and glasses askew who looked strikingly like Potter; and then, Alphard Black next to him...?

It couldn't be.

Theodore picked up the photograph. No, though the likeness was shocking, this was an old photograph—likely from the seventies—and was one of someone else.

The man in the photograph threw his head back and laughed, so roguishly. The pieces fell into place. The timelines added up. Everything made so much more sense.

_I had someone I've been dying to meet._

At the time, Theodore had assumed that this was a thinly-veiled threat. Now he knew the truth.

He placed the photograph back on the table as a heaviness set into his limbs. He had never felt so close to Alphard Black as he did now.

The weeks passed. Often, Theodore found himself imagining conversations, hearts-to-heart, between them. He imagined comforting Black, or becoming a confidante of Black. He imagined Black talking to his friends about their conversations...  _He's really insightful, you know,_ he could almost hear Black saying to Pucey.  _Really gets me like no one else does._ He imagined Black reluctantly dragging him out into Muggle London, showing him how to dress, how to talk to girls. He imagined having a friend to eat lunch with at work; Granger and Zabini would be so shocked that he, of all people, had befriended the coolest person at the Ministry...

He should have known he had been silly, for all of this. He was such a fool.

It happened outside the Leaky Cauldron. Theodore had gone there to drink, alone, certain that none of his crowd would deign to show themselves at such a Mudblood-filled gathering place. As had become his habit, he had been drinking Firewhisky and musing on the few facts he had collected about Black, examining each one of them with the art and romance that might grip Borgin poring over rare antiquities.

As though he'd summoned Black—and that was always the danger of Firewhiskey, for things started to seem not coincidental but instead all interconnected—Adrian Pucey walked in with Alphard Black, with a few girls and some of Pucey's other friends—ones not from Hogwarts—trailing them.

The whole pub seemed to turn to look at them. They were laughing loudly, their faces flushed. They were all a bit tipsy already. Theodore realized suddenly that they were all dressed in Muggle clothing. They must have been out in Muggle London, then.

None of them saw him, or so he believed. He could watch his charge in peace. He had spent so much time around Black that he wondered if they had become accustomed to each other's magical signatures, the way people became accustomed to each other's scent.  _We are all animals in the end,_ he mused drunkenly.  _Smell or magic, doesn't matter, we just want to be in a pack._

As was Black's habit, he begged off early that evening, even though there was a rather attractive witch drunkenly clinging to his arm. He gracefully extricated himself from the group, and almost the instant he turned to go out the door, his face seemed to fall back into its natural repose: a haunted look. But, to Theodore's surprise, Pucey followed him, and the two men left their friends.

Theodore didn't really understand what he was doing. The world was moving too fast; he simply set a number of Galleons on the bar counter, and seemed to slide from his barstool out the door after Alphard Black, like water inexorably rushing to the sea.

The night was cold. Christmas was approaching. Black's posture was tight, his leather jacket zipped up. He'd gotten a haircut, recently, Theodore noted absently. He imagined poking fun at Alphard for it; imagined them making jokes about Alphard's obsessive attention to his hair.

Pucey and Black were laughing about something, their voices low and adolescent in their energy. They were making fun of someone.

"-See him just  _staring_?"

"I tried not to," Black said grimly, but he laughed. "Could he  _be_  more obvious? He looks like a fucking ghost."

"Like the Bloody Baron," Pucey guffawed, then paused. "That was the Slytherin ghost at Hogwarts. Always banging about the towers, clanging around miserably. He'd just hang about, tragically,  _all the time_ ," he explained. "Cept, the Bloody Baron was rather handsome in his time, I'd wager."

"Can you imagine him as a ghost?" Black suggested gleefully.

"He'd haunt you," Pucey agreed, chuckling. "He'd show up over your bed, just as you're about to shag a witch. _I am the ghost of Theodore Nott._ " Pucey waved his hands spookily as he spoke.

Theodore froze. His belly was in his throat and his eyes were burning. He thought he might be choking.

"Ugh," said Alphard disgustedly. "Can you imagine any better birth control than Nott's face?"

"Took the urge right out of me," agreed Pucey. "I'm not sure I'll ever get it up again."

"It's the way he  _stares_  at me. He does it at work, too," Alphard said now, a little more seriously. "I just pretend not to notice, but..."

"Well, you're a handsome bloke. Sometimes I stare at you too. Can't help it, mate," Pucey sniggered, pretending to bat his eyelashes at Alphard. Alphard made noises of protest and punched Pucey in the shoulder; they dissolved into tipsy, sloppy laughter.

"It's no wonder he's got no friends," Alphard continued, more briskly now. "Fucking creep."

"He never had friends at Hogwarts, either," agreed Pucey dispassionately. "If it weren't for Zabini, I don't think he'd get invited anywhere. For some reason Zabini seems to like him."

"Paid him, probably," snorted Alphard, and Pucey was guffawing again.

"No, no," he countered, sniggering, "his  _mum_  paid him."

Theodore thought of the Alphard Black who obsessively mopped his kitchen floor three times in a row, in the Muggle way, his movements panicked as though only scrubbing could save him from death. He thought of the Alphard Black who went home each night and lay in his bed, staring at his ceiling and never seeming to sleep. He thought of the Alphard Black who had been slipping into Potter's house, regularly, for  _hours_  at a time.

It wasn't just that they were saying such things about him: that was painful, yes, but it was nothing he hadn't heard before. Really, the analytical part of his mind was merely disgusted at the lack of originality.

But the emotional part of his mind was on fire.

This felt like a betrayal.

 _I know you,_ Theodore wanted to scream.  _I know you better than any of your so-called friends. I know everything there is to know about you. I've been keeping your secret._

He felt like crying. He couldn't quite say why.

_I'm such a fool._

And so, that Monday, Theodore went directly to Kingsley Shacklebolt's office, and told him that Alphard Black had regularly been breaking and entering into Harry Potter's home.

* * *

_Present Day_

* * *

"Before you try to kill me, let me say that I didn't want things to come to this."

Hermione opened her eyes and watched as the owner of the voice slowly came into focus before her. Bill Weasley was slouching next to her cot, looking at her like she was a highly unpredictable zoo animal and he was in her cage. Wary, but still confident.

Her head throbbed with her quickening pulse, reminding her how she'd got here in the first place. She'd seen Alphard's name in Bill's notes, and then he'd attacked her and she had fallen.

Bill Weasley, a man she had once thought she would call brother-in-law, had attacked her.

Hermione edged backward.

"Kill you?  _You're_  the one trying to kill me," she said levelly, her mind racing as she struggled to control her voice. For one shining moment back in the Department of Mysteries, all of the pieces had (roughly) fit into place, and she was frantic to recapture those puzzle pieces before she lost them. She needed to see Alphard. She needed to see Harry.

And she really, really needed to talk to Pansy Parkinson. How had she not seen it before?

 _I refused_ , she realized, as she and Bill stared each other down. _I refused to see what the evidence was all pointing to. I was so certain I had the measure of Pansy... Just like with Bill._

She would have bet her wand that Bill would never attack her, before. She would have lost that bet.

The idea of being wrong had never been too comfortable for her.

"I would never be able to kill you—unless you stood in the way of justice, of course. I know you understand, because you're the same way," Bill said now, just as levelly. "And Hermione, I know you don't mean to, I know you think you know better; but right now, you're standing in the way of justice."

"You're a cursebreaker for Gringotts. That job doesn't really lend itself to delivering justice," Hermione began. She spied her wand, laying on the countertop behind Bill. Without her magic, she was too vulnerable. She couldn't overpower a garden gnome in a physical fight, let alone Bill Weasley—even if he did look rather the worse for wear right now. "You don't even belong inside the Ministry."

"I belong in the Department of Mysteries far more than you do. I haven't worked at Gringotts since the war." He paused meaningfully. "And if that fact leaves this room, you and I are going to have a problem."

"It seems to me like we've already got a problem," she said acidly. "Why are you researching the Veil, and why does it have anything to do with Alphard?"

Bill hardly seemed concerned that she'd seen Alphard's name. His eyes glimmered with something like amusement.

"Yes, you're right: Alphard Black is connected to that Veil," he conceded. "You already saw his name so it's not like I can hide that from you. ...Though I highly recommend you don't confront Black about this. You might not get the response you are expecting."

"I know Alphard's father was pushed through the Veil. I happened to be there myself when Sirius Black fell through the Veil—not that I was conscious for it, of course. But—"

She stopped short as Bill let out a barking, caustic laugh.

"Sirius as Alphard's father? You seriously believe that, Hermione? I was told you were clever—use your head!" He rose to his feet. "Look, I don't know why you were in that room. I'm assuming you're trying to hunt down Amundsen. I can't stop you from that, either, and I know better than to try Obliviating you. Obliviating is a risky business in the best of circumstances and it leaves far too much evidence, so it'll just come back to bite me in the arse."

"So what will you do then?"

"I will do my job. And I'll leave you to do your job," he said simply. Bill turned on his heel, away from her, but Hermione wasn't done with him yet.

" _My job_  is to hunt Amundsen—"

"No," he said coolly, turning back to her. " _Your job_  is to supervise Alphard Black in case he uses another Unforgivable Curse, in which case you will report it to Furness and Kingsley immediately—as Kingsley has been looking for an excuse to get Alphard Black out of this Ministry for some time—and also to perform your Jurator duties, which have been abbreviated to allow you to concentrate on supervising Black. However, once his period of probation is over, you will likely go back to full-time Jurator, as the Ministry has now lost its other two top Jurators and needs you now more than ever."

"I suppose you've read some file on me?"

"Of course I have." Bill paused in the doorway. For a moment, his posture seemed to sag, and he looked older than his years.  _Like Lupin._ "It would kill my mother to know I don't work for Gringotts anymore," he said simply, and then, at long last, he left.

Bill left her there, and Hermione sat in stunned silence for a long moment.

She didn't know what to do. All of the pieces had just been fitting together, but Bill had effectively thrown a  _Diffindo_  at her puzzle that she had so carefully fitted together, and blown it up.

_You believe that, Hermione?_

The only possible conclusion she could draw here was that Bill strongly believed Alphard had come from the wrong side of the Veil—and not from a union between Sirius and a woman. And though she felt she had a mountain of evidence to prove that Alphard was Sirius' son, Alphard's obvious fixation on Sirius, and therefore on Harry, did nothing to actually prove that: it merely demonstrated that he knew of Sirius in some way.

He didn't have to be his son.

There were other explanations.

And the ancient runes on his back—the ones that were likely from the same period as the indecipherable runes carved into the Veil, the ones that were likely of the same class as the anastasis—did not help matters.

Sirius had had an uncle Alphard. Hermione had just assumed that Alphard had been named for that uncle.

She'd never considered the possibility that he  _was_  that uncle. Or any other possibility, for that matter. She had refused to see those possibilities, too.

He did look an awful lot like Sirius. It was so much more than familial resemblance. It was enough to make Harry attack him, enough to make the Weasleys gasp every time they saw him, like they'd never get used to it.

She was keenly aware that all the while that she pondered this, her chances of getting to Pansy—who had been so elusive thus far—were growing ever slimmer. She needed to make a choice, needed to take action, even though her more imaginative side—the side that could empathize with House Elves, the side that could cry at the drop of a hat, the side that was in love with Harry and always had been—was pressing her to chase down Alphard, to investigate this.

Pansy, Alphard, or Bill.

She got up out of the bed, on weak legs. She knew which one she would choose.

The question, she pondered as she took her wand and steeled herself, was this: would she keep making the mistake of seeing the world the way she wanted to see it, the way that was easiest to see it?

She hadn't had this problem as a child. As a child she had easily perceived the various turns of events and twists of character that all wove together to create the passage of time, as easily as if these things had been laid out before her on a roadmap. When had she stopped questioning things; when had she become so single-minded?

She thought of Harry, of doors shutting forever, of forks in the road, options that fell away forever once you passed them by.  _Oh. That was when._ Sometimes, being able to see other possibilities, to be able to easily perceive how things  _could_  be, rather than how they were, was too painful.

 _You run away from your feelings._ Alphard's words beneath the mistletoe came back to her now. At the time it hadn't quite rung true, because she had thought she knew herself and thought herself to be uncontrolled by her fear. But now she was realizing that she  _had_  known who she had been—but not who she had become. She'd changed, and somewhere along the way she'd forgot to check to make sure she was still going in the right direction. She'd been running so blindly from  _what might have been_  that she no longer knew  _what could be_.

And not only that, but she'd not even chosen the road she'd begun to traverse: she had let herself be pushed along it by other forces. Standing there in the infirmary, alone, she could see that plainly: nothing about her life right now, from her job to her romantic choices, had been explicitly chosen by her. She had not arranged her own life. Everyone else had arranged theirs, and she had fit herself in the spaces in between.

How had she become so passive? All her life she'd been the squeaky wheel, the annoying hand in the air, the persistent force that didn't care whether she made people uncomfortable. It had been painful, it had been lonely, but it had been  _her_. That was who she truly was.

* * *

Alphard jerked backward. The Pensieve wobbled on the console table as he fell back against the wall behind him. After the darkness of the dungeon, the light of the foyer was jarring, and he had to shield his eyes from the brightness of the space.

Alphard stumbled to the powder room and emptied the contents of his stomach into the toilet. He then sank to the floor, clammy and vulnerable, just as Weasley—poor timing, per usual—exploded into the powder room.

"You alright?" he asked breathlessly, as Alphard hastily flushed the contents of his stomach down the drain, ashamed that Weasley was seeing him like this.

"Yep," he said shortly, as he crawled to the wall to lean against it. In an unexpected display of tact, Weasley wordlessly handed him a wad of toilet paper, and Alphard accepted it with shaking hands and wiped his mouth. "Just found a Pensieve."

Weasley's eyes widened.

"Harry's been in those loads of times, but I've never been," he said jealously. "What did you see? Anything good?"

Alphard wanted to laugh. It was an unfortunate turn of phrase.  _Anything good?_ Weasley went to the sink and wet a hand towel under it and passed it to Alphard.

"Look at the state of me, Weasley. What do you think?" he scoffed, and Weasley looked sheepish. "Anyway, ever notice anything odd about Zabini and Malfoy? Back in school, I mean."

"Is that a joke? They were nothing  _but_  odd," Weasley snorted. He put the toilet seat down and sat down on it. "Let me explain: Malfoy was the ringleader of the Slytherins of our year, but then after You-Know-Who's rise and fall, things went a bit south. His dad was thrown in Azkaban and died there, and Voldemort had used up lots of his inheritance, apparently. So the Malfoy you knew was a bit...humbled, shall we say, compared to the Malfoy we all grew up with."

"What about Zabini? Specifically, Malfoy's relationship with him."

Weasley considered this carefully.

"Zabini always had an air of mystery. No one knew him too well, honestly. He didn't stand out in any classes, didn't play Quidditch, didn't really get involved in either the Dark or the Light side... I know he interacted with Malfoy a lot, and Malfoy accepted him into his group, but Zabini doesn't really stand out in my memories of Hogwarts. I mean, obviously, he was a good-looking bloke, and known for that, but beyond that he wasn't really noteworthy. Come to think of it, I don't think I ever even spoke to Zabini," he realized. He looked surprised. "Hermione always respected him, though—after Hogwarts, I mean. Apparently he was a brilliant Jurator; she always said he was better than her and Nott...you can imagine it took a lot for her to say that," he chuckled.

Alphard pondered, as he often did when in the company of Hermione's oldest friends, if any of them truly knew her at all. It didn't surprise him an ounce that Hermione thought Zabini more talented than her.

And as always, he could hardly resist pushing it a bit...

"Well, it wouldn't surprise me that she felt she wasn't the best Jurator, as it isn't really the best fit for Granger, career-wise," he said carelessly, watching Weasley's face out of the corner of his eye. To his surprise, Weasley just nodded.

"Yeah, she and Harry were told by Mad-Eye Moody—course, that wasn't really him, but anyway—that they both would make great Aurors," he said almost gloomily. He chuckled wryly now. "She  _would_  be an excellent Auror. Merlin knows we all did enough of it, back then. He didn't say that to me, though. I'd so love to rub it in his face that I'm the Auror now."

The two men paused as Alphard mulled over what he had learned. "...So? What did you see?" Weasley prompted now. "In the Pensieve."

"Well, Zabini..." The words hovered in Alphard's mouth; he couldn't quite spit them out.

He thought of all the people who had so admired Zabini—Granger, particularly—and how Zabini had represented, in the Slytherins' circle of friends, a different kind of morality: one in which he remained detached and impartial, able to evaluate each set of circumstances individually and in context, rather than based on iron-clad morals. No one had any problem with Zabini; rather like Adrian Pucey, he had evaded both the taint of the Dark and the hardships of the Light.

But none of that mattered. Much as Alphard knew that every crime had its context, and that no one perpetrated violence without their own reasons, Zabini had done something very wrong. Being well-liked or good-looking could not save him in Alphard's eyes. "Zabini raped Malfoy," he finally said bluntly. "Looks like it happened when you all were about sixteen or seventeen. Zabini and Malfoy had a rather complicated relationship, and it's unclear how things evolved after the rape, or why these things were left in the Pensieve. I don't even know if Zabini intended for Granger to find the Pensieve or not."

Weasley didn't look shocked; he scratched his chin, instead looking thoughtful, and Alphard was almost annoyed to feel a flicker of respect.

"Didn't you associate with them? At parties, and stuff. I know you're best friends with Pucey, and he's—"

"—friends with everyone, yeah," Alphard finished for him. "I certainly interacted with Malfoy and Zabini at parties, and heard about them peripherally, but honestly, I never got the slightest hint of anything untoward between them. They seemed basically like friends. Only bit of trouble between them was Astoria Greengrass—"

"—isn't she quite fit? She's Daphne Greengrass' sister, who went to Beauxbatons?"

"Yeah, Daph's sister. She's alright, a bit dull. But Malfoy was certainly pursuing her—as were plenty of other blokes—and it seemed like she and Zabini were in a relationship. Nott was always obsessed with her, too. I even confronted him about it, once."

Weasley shuddered.

"Creep," he muttered, unknowingly earning another point in his favor in Alphard's mind. "So you actually  _saw_  the rape, then?"

"Yeah...and so did Nott."

"How?" Weasley looked disgusted. "You mean he  _watched?"_

"I guess he was spying? I don't know how much he saw. He confronted Zabini afterwards, but Zabini sort of just ran off—"

"It makes sense," Weasley said suddenly. "I always thought that Zabini was a bit weird with Nott—nowadays, I mean. He always stuck up for him and was weirdly...considerate of him. It seemed out of character for Zabini," Weasley was saying, almost excitedly. Alphard noted that, perhaps, he was excited to have been right about something. "So now we know that Nott  _had_  something on Zabini, and I bet you anything Nott never let him forget it...How sick do you have to be, to just  _watch_  something like that happen, and not stop it? Then again, I guess he could have been scared of what Zabini might do."

"That _is_  the likeliest explanation, but it doesn't tell me anything new about Zabini's death. Nott's too clever to kill Zabini if he had something over him; he wouldn't want to waste the opportunity to wheedle a favor out of him later, particularly in terms of their careers."

Alphard fell silent, thinking hard.

Malfoy had been raped, by Zabini.

And he knew Astoria had been raped—likely by someone who was already dead, as Daphne had implied that it would be impossible to get justice for what had happened to her sister.

Had Zabini raped Astoria, too? Had Alphard had the wrong end of that relationship, too? There were love letters between Astoria and Zabini, but that didn't prove anything. She might not even have written those. ...And even if she had, Malfoy and Zabini's odd relationship was enough to prove that just because someone hurt you didn't necessarily mean you stopped loving them.

"You're right," Weasley agreed, breaking into Alphard's thoughts and shaking his head and getting to his feet. "Come on, let's look around the house a bit more. We probably don't have much time before we're caught."

He offered his hand and Alphard took it a bit reluctantly, and Weasley pulled him to his feet.

"Thanks," Alphard muttered.

They began searching the bedroom together, mostly wordlessly.

"It's too bad you and Harry can't get on," Weasley suddenly said, pausing in his searching. "You both have a lot of insight into others. You'd work well together." Alphard had been rooting through drawers, and he looked back at the redhead in surprise.

"Don't know if you've noticed, but Potter's not exactly my biggest fan," he said wryly. Weasley chuckled.

"Yeah. It's funny how when you first turned up I hated you, 'cause I thought you and Harry'd become best mates and I'd be odd man out."

"It'll be a cold day in hell on the day that Potter stops being your best friend, Weasley." Alphard resumed his search, feeling distinctly uncomfortable. But Weasley continued.

"It's hard for him, you know. I know you never met Sirius, and I'm sure you're getting sick of hearing this, but you're  _so_  like him. It's not just how you look, it's...everything. How you say things. How you make people feel. And you can't know what Sirius was to Harry. They had this bond that went beyond whatever you'd expect of godfather and godson," Weasley explained.

He was rifling through dozens of gloriously-coloured silk robes, clearly not paying attention to the search. "I never realized it when we were kids, but Harry went through hell in his childhood. I mean, he was actually  _abused_ by the Muggles who raised him. He never talks about it, of course, and if anyone brings it up he just shrugs it off or makes a joke, but he was abused...and it never wore him down, you know?

"Most people, if they went through that, they'd lose themselves. But it never really hurt him. It only made him stronger. And Sirius was the same way. He was in Azkaban, and sure, it changed him, but he was still clearly  _himself._  Who else could survive more than a decade in Azkaban? I think not many people are like that. And I think that sense of self...they saw it in each other. I think it was the first time Harry really felt _understood_ , you know?"

Alphard had to bury his hands deeper in the drawer to hide how they trembled, and he lowered his face to conceal himself and his feelings from Weasley.

"You seem like you have a lot of insight into others, too," he said lightly.

"I've been thinking about it a lot, is all," Weasley replied a bit sheepishly. "You're like Sirius, in that you get a reaction out of people, no matter what you do. I hated you when you first showed up, yeah; but I was also desperate for you to think I was cool."

"It's the hair," Alphard joked. The room felt airless. "Long hair always does that. Trust me, the minute I get a haircut, you'll think I'm a total knob."

"What I'm trying to say is," Weasley said, ignoring Alphard's joke, "it's taken me some time, and I'm stubborn as hell, but I came around eventually. Harry will too."

"Came around?"

"I'm okay with it," Weasley said, his face partially obscured by the wardrobe, "if something...happens...between you and Hermione."

"Wow. Thanks for bequeathing Granger to me. I hope she's got a decent dowry." Alphard paused. "And I'm not really sure when you got this into your head, but there's nothing between me and Granger. I...have a girlfriend. So, really: there's nothing between me and Granger."

"Sure there isn't," Weasley snorted. "I know you think I'm an idiot, but I'm smarter than I look." And then the rack of robes fell down on top of him.

* * *

 _Where_  was Pansy?

Hermione was beginning to realize that this would be harder than she thought. She had tracked down Pansy's flat, but the Slytherin girl hadn't been there.

The only choice, then, was to go to Malfoy Manor. It was where she had seen Pansy last, and, judging by her own theory, where Pansy was most likely to be. Reluctant though she was to leave the Ministry, she had no time to carefully plan her next move: she needed to act  _now_. She went back to Nott's office, but his notes that she had discovered were gone.

 _I'll deal with you later, Bill_ , she thought almost vengefully, as she snapped her bag shut and left the Ministry. She hoped he wasn't so foolish as to really think this matter closed, but then, she would not so foolishly underestimate him ever again.

She wouldn't underestimate  _anyone_  ever again. Bill, Pansy, Nott, even Alphard...how many people had she completely underestimated?

She Disapparated, and reappeared at Malfoy Manor. It had been freshly cordoned off, and the air was thick with detection spells. The Auror presence was opaque enough that she already knew Pansy wouldn't be here.

"Jurator Granger," came a voice, small in the high wind. Whelkes melted into being before her, his face flushed and his glasses slightly fogged. "What are you doing here?"

"Looking for Pansy Parkinson, whom you were supposed to be tailing," she said bluntly, wasting no time. "Where is she?"

"No one knows. It's like she disappeared off the bloody map. W—" he halted, consciously. "Another person asked me to tail her, actually. So is she a prime suspect again?"

"Did Bill Weasley ask you to tail her?" Hermione countered coolly. Whelkes looked startled.

"Bill Weasley? He doesn't even work for the Ministry, Jurator Granger."

His lie fell flat. Hermione smiled a little sadly at Whelkes. She'd never been much of a liar, either.

"Harry told me," she began gently, "that if you're a bad liar, it's generally best to say nothing at all. It's better to let people wonder than to confirm their suspicions."

She turned on the spot, leaving a stunned Whelkes behind.

* * *

Hermione only had a few possibilities for where Pansy might be, but even with Apparition, traveling to each of these places would take forever—it would be a waste of valuable time.

And thus Hermione found herself back at Pansy Parkinson's flat.

She was going to be breaking and entering into Pansy's flat.

She liked to think that this sort of behavior was unlike her, but she knew that nothing was off-limits when she needed to achieve her goal. Unfortunately, Bill had been correct in that regard: nothing would stand in the way between her and justice.  _At least, it won't ever again,_ she thought determinedly.

Pansy's flat was in Knockturn Alley, not far from Alphard's flat. The old building loomed up in front of her, a collection of heavy blackened stone and darkened, diamond-paneled windows.

Hermione entered the building. The wooden door was heavy, with an ancient, twisted knocker in the shape of a serpent. The hall, though plushly decorated with silk walls and thick carpeting, had clearly seen better days. The sounds of Knockturn Alley had been blocked out, leaving a ringing in her ears, reminiscent of being in an empty church. It was a lonely place.

Pansy didn't live on the top floor, as Hermione might have guessed. Rather, she only lived one storey up. Bags of rubbish had been left out on the landing, and even from here, Hermione could smell Pansy's strong perfume lingering in the air. She murmured a few detection spells under her breath, but Pansy hadn't left any defenses or wards up. The girl, clever though she apparently was, was obviously unused to having to protect herself.

The heavy door came open with a simple  _Alohomora_  and swung inward with a groan, revealing Pansy's flat. Hermione hastily shut the door behind her, and looked around.

Pansy was a slob, perhaps moreso than even Harry. Shopping bags—even from Muggle stores; she recognized a few rather glossy names—were strewn about the room, with items still bearing tags tumbled out of them, mixed in carelessly with dirty laundry. Judging by the number and quality of shopping bags, Hermione couldn't help but surmise that Pansy was likely in a decent amount of debt. The idea didn't surprise her. Pansy had always seemed impulsive and undisciplined.

Half-finished food sat on the side table next to the sofa, and the kitchen area was a veritable pigsty. Beyond her disgust, she felt pity: this was the flat of a person who desperately pursued material happiness; who had little that she could call her purpose. This was the flat of a deeply unhappy person, possibly consumed by her own grief.

Hermione left the kitchen and went to the bedroom, which was surprisingly bare, aside from all the clothes. The wardrobe was overflowing with cheap, brightly-colored robes and designer handbags, but beyond that, it was empty. There were no pictures on her bedside table, no signs of a life beyond her clothes.

In a flat overflowing with things that had clearly failed to give Pansy any meaning, what could Hermione possibly use to track her?

Alphard would be good at finding something, but she didn't have the time to go and find him, and truthfully, thinking of him was painful right now. The seeds of doubt that Bill had planted were improbable, but he'd planted them nonetheless. To see Alphard would mean being confronted by profound doubt: doubt in her friendship with Alphard (however precarious it often felt), doubt in her own abilities to discern falsities and lies; doubt in her knowledge of life, death, and the Veil.

She combed through the wardrobe, looked beneath the bed, opened drawers in search of anything that did not appear to be carelessly discarded to where it now lay. She searched for anything that seemed beloved, special.

At last, in the wardrobe, she came upon something.

It was a heavy black velvet dress; even Hermione could tell that the quality was higher than anything else in the wardrobe. The velvet was plush and had the peculiar sort of depth one only saw in the night sky: that it seemed to have no back to it, no end.

Hermione didn't really care for clothes, particularly dramatic dresses. Her life really had no place for such things. But even her breath was stolen away by the sight of this dress. It was hanging in the very back of the wardrobe, sitting properly on its hanger, clearly separate from the other robes and dresses. It didn't look like it had been worn more than once. Hermione held up the dress and could only think that the cut, with its daring, plunging neckline and narrow waist, looked  _triumphant_.

It was the best she was going to get. Nothing else in this entire flat seemed to be worth a damn to Pansy Parkinson. Hermione tugged it off the plush hanger and, though the dress was made of heavy velvet, it felt light as air in her hands.

She held up the dress and cast the tracking spell, and watched a little burst of light come forth from the dress.

"Got you," she whispered, and she discarded the dress and chased after the light.

* * *

Alphard and Weasley left Zabini's flat. Alphard knew he ought to owl Hermione, but he didn't know how to put into words what he had seen in the Pensieve. He couldn't just write something like that in a note; he wasn't even sure what words one might use.

He returned to his own flat and took a long shower, avoiding what he knew he must do. Without speaking to Astoria or, at the very least, Daphne, what he had seen in the Pensieve held little implications for Zabini's or Malfoy's deaths, or Nott's involvement in the Amundsen case. He knew he had to talk to Daphne, either way: either to discuss with her what she knew, or to gain access to Astoria.

Perhaps he was feeling a little rebellious because he dressed in Muggle clothes, even though he strongly suspected that Daphne was bothered by the sight of them. He ought to have played to her preferences, but after being so immersed in all of the ways that these people held onto their bigotry like precious talismans, he couldn't bring himself to.

That, and maybe, some part of him was just looking for trouble.

He Apparated to the alley outside of the Greengrass' flat. He'd been here a number of times, of course, but it seemed unfamiliar to him today. He recalled finding Zabini's handkerchief in Astoria's purse, and wondered even more about whether he had once again presumed too much; once again got the wrong end of the stick.

But as he stood in the alley, gathering his courage, he saw Astoria breeze past him, wearing a tailored pink Muggle coat, with her hair a mess. He forgot all about Daphne, and the inconvenient conversation they must have, and immediately decided to tail her.

Unfortunately, he did not see Daphne watching from her window, who had heard him Apparate into the alleyway, and had watched as, yet again, someone had chosen Astoria over her.


End file.
